Chapter 5 - The Gala of Knives
The annual Winter Charity Ball at the Plaza Hotel was the premier event for New York’s high society—a shimmering spectacle where politicians, billionaires, and high-ranking syndicate bosses rubbed shoulders under crystal chandeliers, masking their lethal rivalries beneath tuxedos and champagne glasses.
Viktor had decided to make a definitive statement.
When the double doors of the grand ballroom opened, a hush fell over the three hundred guests.
Viktor Rostov walked in, looking devastatingly handsome in a bespoke black tuxedo. But it was not his presence that shocked the room; it was the woman on his arm.
Emma walked beside him, radiating a breathtaking, sovereign elegance. She wore a custom deep-emerald velvet gown that hugged her curves in all the right places, flowing down to the marble floor in rich, heavy pleats. Her dark hair was styled in intricate curls pinned back with emerald clips, and a diamond necklace—a Rostov family heirloom—sparkled around her neck.
Beside them, little Sophie walked proudly in a matching emerald dress, holding Emma’s hand with absolute devotion.
Whispers rippled through the room like a toxic wave.
“Who is she?” a high-society woman snickered behind her feathered fan. “Is that Viktor’s new woman? She’s... hardly what one expected.”
“She’s a common baker,” another man whispered. “Plus-sized, no nobility, no family background. What is Viktor thinking?”
Emma heard the whispers. A knot of self-doubt tightened in her stomach. She knew she didn't fit the starved, plastic aesthetic of the women who usually populated Viktor’s world. She instinctively tried to slip her hand out of Viktor’s arm, but his grip tightened instantly, pulling her closer against his side.
Viktor leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Look at me, Emma.”
Emma looked up into his fierce, unyielding grey eyes.
“You saved my daughter,” Viktor said, his voice carrying a quiet authority that resonated above the ballroom’s chamber music. “You hold more honor in your little finger than every politician and mobster in this room combined. You are the grandest woman here. Never bow your head.”
At that moment, Matteo Moretti—the head of the rival family, an arrogant man in his late fifties—approached them holding a glass of wine, flanked by two sharp-eyed associates.
“Viktor,” Matteo sneered, his eyes sweeping over Emma with obvious condescension. “I heard rumors you had taken in a street baker. I didn't believe it until now. Has the Rostov Syndicate fallen so low that you pick your company from the bargain bin?”
The air around Viktor instantly dropped to a lethal chill. His bodyguards stepped forward, but Viktor raised a hand, stopping them.
Before Viktor could speak, Sophie stepped forward. Her small hands moved with lightning speed, her face contorted in fierce anger as she signed directly at Matteo:
You are a ugly snake! My Emma is a queen! You smell like trash!
Matteo frowned, not understanding ASL. “What is the mute child waving her hands about?”
Emma stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on Sophie’s shoulder while looking Matteo dead in the eye, her voice calm, clear, and ringing across the nearby crowd:
“She said,” Emma translated smoothly, “that you possess neither the manners of a gentleman nor the intelligence of a king, Mr. Moretti. And that your presence is bothering us.”
Gasps erupted from the surrounding high-society guests. Matteo’s face flushed a violent red.
May you like
Viktor let out a dark, low laugh—a sound that sent cold shivers down Matteo’s spine.
“You heard my daughter and my lady, Matteo,” Viktor said, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “Get out of my sight before I make you leave.”
