Chapter 7 - SHATTERED MASKSThe grand ballroom of the Chicago Cultural Center was an explosion of gold leaf, stained glass, and toxic wealth. Hundreds of the city’s elite—politicians, hedge fund billionaires, and high-ranking syndicate lieutenants—mingled under the Tiffany dome, sipping vintage champagne and trading fortunes in hushed conversations.
The moment Adrian and I crossed the threshold, the orchestral music seemed to lose its volume. The murmurs died. Heads turned in unison like dominoes falling.
Across the room, standing beside a champagne fountain with a glass in hand, Nathan Vance froze. Vanessa stood next to him, wearing an ostentatious silver sequin gown that suddenly looked cheap and desperate compared to the heavy emerald velvet draped over my form.
Nathan’s glass tilted, champagne slopping over the rim onto his sleeve. He stared at my hand resting on Adrian’s arm, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and utter disbelief.
"Keep your eyes forward," Adrian murmured in my ear, his hand firm on my waist. "You are a queen among hyenas."
We made our way through the crowd, people parting before Adrian like the waters of the Red Sea. Men who owned half the commercial real estate downtown bowed their heads in respectful greeting, their eyes lingering on my stomach with silent, frantic calculations.
Then, an older man with silver hair and a crooked, predatory grin stepped into our path.
Salvatore Moretti.
Adrian’s uncle was sixty, but he moved with the sinewy grace of a viper. He wore a traditional three-piece tuxedo, a thick gold pinky ring bearing the ancient family crest gleaming on his left hand. Two armed bodyguards lingered discreetly three paces behind him.
"Adrian," Salvatore purred, his voice raspy like gravel being crushed under a boot. "The prodigal nephew graces us with his presence. And who is this delightful creature you’ve dragged in from the South Side cold?"
"You know exactly who she is, Salvatore," Adrian replied, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "This is Claire Moretti. My wife."
A sharp collective intake of breath sounded from the nearby onlookers who had gathered to watch the confrontation.
Salvatore’s cold blue eyes raked over me, landing on the emerald velvet covering my stomach. A sneer twisted his thin lips. "A wife? How convenient. And I suppose that belly is carrying the next sovereign of the Moretti estate?"
"A son," I said clearly, stepping forward half an inch, refusing to let Adrian fight this battle alone. "A healthy, thriving son. And his bloodline is unbroken."
Salvatore’s grin vanished. The insult was clear: Salvatore had three daughters and no male heir, a point of bitter contention that had fueled his desperate grab for Adrian’s throne for a decade.
"Careful, little girl," Salvatore hissed, dropping his voice so only the three of us could hear. "Accidents happen in this city. Wet pavement. Broken brakes. Stressed mothers often lose their burdens before they ever see a cradle."
Before Salvatore could finish the sentence, Adrian’s hand moved faster than the human eye could follow.
He seized Salvatore by the silk lapels of his tuxedo, slamming the older man backward against a marble Corinthian pillar with a violent, echoing crack. Glassware shattered on a nearby cocktail table. The ballroom gasped in unison. Salvatore’s bodyguards reached inside their jackets, but before they could draw, Marcus and four of Adrian’s men appeared from the shadows, pressing suppressed Glock barrels directly behind the bodyguards' ears.
"Draw those weapons," Marcus warned quietly, "and your brains will decorate that Tiffany glass before your knees hit the floor."
Adrian leaned into his uncle’s face, his voice barely above a whisper, yet terrifying enough to make the blood run cold in anyone who heard it.
"If you ever speak of my wife or my unborn child again, Salvatore," Adrian said, his knuckles turning white where they twisted into the silk lapel, "I will not just kill you. I will dismantle everything bearing your name. I will salt the earth your daughters walk on. You have until midnight to sign over your shares of the Indiana port authority and board a flight to Palermo. If you are in Chicago when the sun rises, you die."
Adrian released him with a shove. Salvatore stumbled, gasping for breath, clutching his bruised chest. He glared at Adrian with murderous fury, but the raw, unhinged power in Adrian’s eyes told him everything he needed to know: Adrian wasn't bluffing.
"Let’s go," Salvatore spat at his guards, turning on his heel and retreating through the side exit like a beaten dog.
The ballroom was paralyzed. Adrian smoothed his lapels, turned back to me, and held out his arm as if nothing had happened.
May you like
"Now," Adrian said softly, "I believe there is another account we need to settle."
He turned his head toward the champagne fountain, where Nathan Vance was frantically attempting to sneak out toward the coat check.
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