Chapter 3 - The Gala of Knives
The annual Chicago Freight and Logistics Charity Gala was held at the Palmer House Hilton, an opulent ballroom filled with crystal chandeliers, champagne fountains, and three hundred of the city’s most influential—and dangerous—citizens.
It was Chloe’s first public appearance as Vincent Rossi’s wife.
When the heavy oak doors of the ballroom opened, a hush washed over the room like a cold wave.
Vincent walked in first, immaculate in a bespoke charcoal suit. Beside him, her hand resting gracefully on the crook of his arm, walked Chloe. She wore a floor-length dress of deep crimson velvet—a color strategically chosen to hide any potential bleeding if her wounds opened, though her posture gave no hint of weakness. Her blonde hair was styled in intricate braids, and around her neck sat a heavy diamond necklace from the Rossi family vault.
The room stared. Whispers rippled through the crowd like wind through dead leaves.
“That’s her... the waitress.” “She took four bullets for Isabella...” “Vincent actually married her...” “Look at her... she doesn't look like syndicate...”
Vincent ignored them all, his presence dominating the space. He walked Chloe toward a raised VIP booth where Isabella sat, surrounded by elderly syndicate wives who looked at Chloe with a mixture of awe and intense scrutiny.
"Bambina," Isabella smiled, standing up and opening her arms to embrace Chloe gently, careful not to press against her injuries. "You look like an angel."
"Thank you, Isabella," Chloe replied softly.
"Call her Ma," Vincent instructed quietly from beside her. "Everyone is watching."
Before Chloe could answer, a tall, slicked-back man with sharp, rat-like features and a scar running along his collarbone stepped out of the crowd, holding two glasses of champagne.
Dante Marcone.
Two heavy-set men trailed closely behind him, their suit jackets bulging suspiciously under their left arms.
The air in the immediate vicinity froze. Mateo, Vincent’s chief security officer, quietly slid a hand inside his coat, stepping forward. Vincent didn't flinch. He slowly turned his head to look at Dante, his hazel eyes locking onto the rival boss with a chilling, predatory stillness.
"Dante," Vincent said, his voice smooth as silk and cold as ice.
"Vincent," Dante sneered, his eyes sliding over Chloe with disgust and hidden rage. "I came to offer my congratulations. We were all shocked to hear you had taken a wife so suddenly. And from a diner, no less."
He stepped closer, offering a champagne glass to Chloe. "To the hero of the Silver Spoon. Tell me, Mrs. Rossi... does a bullet wound hurt less when it's covered in Rossi diamonds?"
The insults were blatant, designed to provoke Vincent into a public display of violence that would draw federal attention.
Chloe looked at the champagne glass. She didn't flinch. She didn't look at Vincent for help. Instead, she took half a step forward, putting herself slightly between Vincent and Dante—a posture that did not go unnoticed by the surrounding crowd.
"Mr. Marcone," Chloe said, her voice clear, calm, and carrying across the quieted circle. "A bullet wound hurts regardless of what you wear. But what hurts far more, I imagine, is sending professional gunmen to shoot an unarmed seventy-two-year-old woman, only to have the entire operation ruined by a twenty-two-year-old girl holding a water pitcher."
A sharp, collective gasp echoed through the surrounding tables.
Dante’s face flushed a deep, ugly red. His jaw worked silently as he stared at her, his eyes dark with sudden, violent malice. "You have a sharp tongue, little waitress."
"And you have poor marksmanship," Chloe replied coldly, looking him up and down. "Excuse us. My mother-in-law is waiting."
She turned her back on Dante Marcone—a supreme act of disrespect in their world—and guided Vincent back toward the booth.
Vincent walked beside her, his body rigid, but as they reached the table, he leaned down toward her ear.
"That was remarkably foolish," he murmured, his breath brushing her neck.
"Did I embarrass you, Mr. Rossi?" she asked, looking up at him.
May you like
Vincent looked down at her—at her sparkling eyes, her proud chin, her fierce, unwavering courage. For the first time since she had met him, his lips curved into a slow, dark, genuine smile that transformed his ruthless face into something breathtakingly handsome.
"No, Mrs. Rossi," Vincent whispered, his fingers briefly brushing against the small of her back. "You made me want to burn this entire room down just to keep you safe."
