Chapter 2 - The Saint of St. Catherine’s
The grand ballroom of Valente Tower was a sea of glittering silk, tailored tuxedos, and the suffocating scent of expensive floral arrangements. High society poured out its wealth in the name of charity, all while Matteo Valente watched them from the elevated VIP tier like a wolf guarding a flock of sheep.
When Matteo stepped up to the podium to deliver his opening remarks, the room fell into an immediate, respectful silence. He spoke with the flawless, calculated charm of a modern billionaire, his speech cards resting untouched on the mahogany surface. He didn't need them. He spoke of legacy, of protecting the innocent, and of funding the future of Chicago's youth. But his eyes never stopped moving across the crowd.
He found her near the eastern banquet tables.
Arya stood beside Dr. Adrien Vale. From a distance, they looked like the perfect upper-crust couple. Adrien was undeniably handsome—tall, with perfectly styled sandy hair, a sun-kissed complexion, and a smile that exuded warmth and trustworthiness. He wore a bespoke tuxedo that cost more than a maid's annual salary, and his arm was wrapped tightly around Arya's waist.
To anyone else, it looked like a loving embrace. To Matteo, who now knew the truth, he could see the aggressive tension in Adrien’s fingers, pressing hard against Arya’s ribs—right where the fresh, dark bruise was hidden beneath her blouse. Arya’s posture was stiff, her smile static and polite, her eyes fixed forward, never meeting the surgeon’s gaze.
“And now,” Matteo announced into the microphone, his voice smooth and deadpan, “we honor the man whose hands have given life back to dozens of our city’s children. Please welcome the recipient of the Valente Humanitarian Award, Dr. Adrien Vale.”
The room erupted into thundering applause. Adrien beamed, giving Arya a quick, performative kiss on the cheek before stepping toward the stage.
As Adrien passed Matteo to take the heavy crystal award, the two men locked eyes. Adrien’s smile remained bright, but there was a subtle, arrogant glint in his eyes—the look of a man who knew he belonged to a caste of untouchables.
“Thank you, Mr. Valente,” Adrien said into the microphone, his voice echoing beautifully through the hall. “It is an honor to work alongside a foundation that understands the value of saving lives. I owe much of my strength to my beautiful fiancée, Arya, who keeps me grounded every single day.”
The crowd turned to look at Arya, who offered a graceful, practiced nod.
May you like
Matteo stood a step behind the surgeon, his face an unreadable mask of stone. He watched the way Adrien’s throat moved when he spoke, tracing the jugular vein. He thought about how easy it would be to snap the surgeon’s gifted hands. He thought about the legal power of Chief Justice Vale.
Let them try, Matteo thought, his blood running cold and lethal. Let them bring the whole state of Illinois. I will dig the graves myself.
