Chapter 3 - The Ghost at the Gala
Two weeks into our marriage, the Santoro family hosted its annual charity gala at the Plaza Hotel—a lavish cover for the city's most powerful underground figures and corrupt politicians to negotiate territory.
I walked into the ballroom on Niko’s arm, wearing a floor-length backless gown of deep emerald silk. My dark hair was swept up into an elegant chignon, held in place by a diamond comb that belonged to Niko's late mother.
The whispers started the moment we crossed the threshold.
"Look at her... Arthur Shaw's wild daughter..." "How long do you think Niko will tolerate her?" "She looks too delicate for a Santoro..."
Niko felt me stiffen beside him. He slid his arm around my waist, pulling me firmly against his side, his large hand resting warmly on the exposed skin of my lower back.
"Ignore them," Niko murmured near my ear, his breath warm and tinged with cognac. "They are sheep trying to judge a wolf."
"Which one am I?" I whispered back, looking up at his razor-sharp profile. "The sheep or the wolf?"
Niko looked down at me, his gray eyes darkening with an intense, unreadable emotion. "You're neither, Evelyn. You're the trap."
Before I could process his words, a tall, elderly man with slicked-back white hair and a silver-headed cane approached us, flanked by three imposing bodyguards.
It was Don Vincent Valenti—the head of the rival Valenti family and the most feared man in Brooklyn.
"Niko," Vincent rasped, his voice sounding like dry leaves blowing across concrete. "You look well. And this must be the lovely bride your new father-in-law traded away."
"Vincent," Niko acknowledged, his body tensing into a posture of lethal readiness. "I didn't think you'd have the nerve to show your face in Manhattan after your little stunt at the cathedral."
Vincent let out a dry, chilling chuckle. He turned his cold, watery eyes onto me, scanning my gown with sickening familiarity.
"Arthur Shaw played a dangerous game, young lady," Vincent said to me softly. "He promised your hand to my son Marco three months ago to clear his gambling debts at my Atlantic City casinos. Then he turned around and gave you to the Santoros."
My breath hitched. Another lie. My father hadn't just made a deal with Niko; he had double-crossed the most ruthless mob boss in New York.
"My father's debts are his own," I said, keeping my voice ice-cold as I met Vincent’s gaze without flinching. "I am a Santoro now, Don Valenti. And if you have a problem with my husband's territory, I suggest you take it up with him, not his wife."
Niko’s hand tightened around my waist. A slow, terrifyingly proud smile played across his lips.
Vincent’s smile vanished. His jaw tightened as he leaned heavily on his cane. "A sharp tongue, girl. Let's see how sharp it stays when your father's bodies start floating in the Hudson."
Vincent turned and walked away into the crowd.
Niko leaned down, his lips brushing against my temple. "That was brilliant," he whispered, his voice vibrating with suppressed power. "You just declared war on the Valenti family."
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"I didn't declare war," I said, turning to look into his dark eyes. "I defended my husband."
Niko stared at me, his hand cupping the back of my neck, pulling me inches closer. For the first time since we met, the wall of cold indifference between us completely shattered.
