Chapter 5 - THE LION’S DEN AT THE ST. REGISThe emerald dress arrived in a velvet garment bag carried by two nervous tailors at three in the afternoon.
It was constructed of heavy silk satin, the color of pine needles in deep shadow. It clung to my ribs, dropped in an elegant, unbroken column to the floor, and left my shoulders completely bare. Carmela herself pinned my thick auburn hair into an elaborate, classical twist, leaving soft tendrils to brush against my neck.
When I stepped into the foyer, Matteo was waiting by the double doors. He wore a midnight-blue tuxedo with grosgrain lapels, looking dangerously aristocratic.
His eyes swept over me slowly, deliberately. For the first time since I had met him, he seemed momentarily caught off guard.
"Acceptable," he said, clearing his throat and offering his arm.
"High praise from a man who usually talks in threats," I replied, slipping my gloved hand into the crook of his elbow. His bicep felt like carved oak beneath the wool.
The St. Regis ballroom was suffocating with wealth, power, and concealed firearms. Crystal chandeliers dripped from the gilded ceiling, casting fractured light across two hundred guests dressed in black tie. At the perimeter stood dozens of security men, their eyes tracking every entrance with hawkish vigilance.
The moment the heavy brass doors opened and the head steward announced, "Mr. Matteo Vescari and Miss Emily Rossi," the entire ballroom seemed to lose its breath.
Whispers rippled through the room like a sudden gust through dry grass.
"Rossi? As in Antonio’s line?""Is that the girl from the Lower East Side?""He brought her here? Openly?"
Matteo’s grip tightened imperceptibly over my fingers. "Chin up, Emily. Walk like you own the ground beneath their feet."
"I feel like I'm walking to the gallows," I whispered through a tight smile.
"Same thing in this room."
Across the dance floor, a group of older men in dark suits parted. A man with thinning silver hair and a crooked, sneering mouth stepped forward, swirling scotch in a heavy tumbler.
Enzo Moretti.
"Matteo," Moretti said, his voice greasy and overly familiar. "We were beginning to think you had lost your stomach for high society."
"I have a low tolerance for mediocre liquor, Enzo," Matteo replied smoothly. "You requested this meeting. Speak quickly."
Moretti’s cold, reptilian gaze slid over to me, lingering on the exposed line of my neck. "And who is this delicate little bloom? You usually keep your diversions hidden away in the penthouse."
"This is my fiancee," Matteo said, each syllable dropping like an iron weight. "Emily Rossi. Granddaughter of Antonio Vescari-Rossi."
Moretti’s smile vanished completely. The glass in his hand tilted slightly. "Antonio’s blood died out in the seventies."
"Clearly," I spoke up, my voice ringing clear and steady above the low hum of the string quartet, "your intelligence is as reliable as your manners, Mr. Moretti."
A choked cough came from one of the capos standing behind Moretti. Matteo’s jaw twitched, stifling a grin.
Moretti’s eyes narrowed into slits. "Spitfire. A dangerous quality in a woman who doesn't understand the rules of this city."
"The rules change tonight, Enzo," Matteo stepped forward, partially shielding me with his shoulder. "The Rossi holdings are reunited with the Vescari estate. That includes the dockland properties in Brooklyn and the supply routes through Queens. If your men so much as look at the Lower East Side again, I will consider it an act of war."
Moretti leaned in close, his voice dropping into a vicious hiss. "You think you're untouchable because you have an orphan girl and an old ledger, Matteo? The girl won't make it to her sixteenth birthday. Accidents happen on country roads."
Before Moretti could take another breath, Matteo’s left hand struck like a viper, clamping down over Moretti’s throat and shoving him hard against a banquet table. Champagne glasses shattered, sending crystal and golden liquid cascading across the linen.
The ballroom exploded into screams. A dozen men drew handguns from under their jackets, the sharp click-clack of chambering rounds echoing through the hall.
"Mention my niece again," Matteo whispered into Moretti’s ear, his voice terrifyingly calm amid the chaos, "and I will tear your empire apart brick by brick, and feed the rubble to your sons."
He released Moretti with a contemptuous shove. The rival boss collapsed against his bodyguards, gasping for air, his face purple.
May you like
Matteo turned his back on twenty loaded guns, took my shaking hand, and guided me back toward the exit.
"Time to go, Emily," he said calmly, as if we had simply concluded an awkward conversation about the weather.
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