Chapter 4 - The Lioness at the Table
The Drake Hotel ballroom was filled with three hundred of the most dangerous people in the Midwest.
Crystal chandeliers hung from the gold-leaf ceiling, casting light over men in ten-thousand-dollar tuxedos and women dripping in diamonds. It was the annual charity gala for the Chicago Children’s Hospital—a public event that served as the unspoken, neutral ground where the Five Families met once a year to negotiate territory and evaluate each other's strength.
Vincent stood near the grand staircase, a glass of scotch in his hand. Beside him stood Clara.
She wore a floor-length dress of deep emerald silk that clung to her curves, her dark hair swept up in an elegant knot held by silver pins. On her throat rested a collar of emeralds and diamonds from the Calvetti vault. But it wasn't the jewelry that drew every eye in the room.
It was the way she moved. She didn't walk like a waitress thrust into society. She walked like a woman who owned the floor beneath her feet.
A few yards away, Marco Moretti—the sixty-year-old boss of the rival Moretti syndicate—was watching them. Marco was a broad, silver-haired man with a reputation for merciless cruelty. He had spent three years trying to bleed the Calvetti shipping lines dry.
When Vincent stepped away for a moment to speak with an Italian importer near the bar, Marco made his move.
He strolled over to Clara, holding two glasses of champagne, flanked by his two primary enforcers.
“Mrs. Calvetti,” Marco said, his voice like gravel grinding under a boot. He offered her a glass. “Or should I say, the new Queen of the Gold Coast?”
Clara didn't take the glass. She gave him a cool, polite smile. “Mr. Moretti. I’ve read about you in our financial reports.”
Marco laughed—a sharp, ugly sound. “Financial reports? How charming. Vincent has his new bride playing with spreadsheets while he pretends to build a family.”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice so the surrounding guests couldn't hear, though his intention was pure poison.
“It’s a tragedy, really,” Marco whispered sneeringly. “A fine woman like you, bound to a man who is half a husband. Everyone in this room knows why he picked you up off the street, my dear. He needed a boy to cover up his own broken body. But a fake heir doesn't make a real family. When Vincent falls, that little boy of yours won't have a name to protect him.”
The two enforcers behind Marco smirked, expecting the former waitress to cower or blush.
Instead, Clara took a slow step forward, narrowing the distance between them until she was inches from Marco’s expensive tuxedo lapel. She didn't look flustered. She looked bored.
“You know, Mr. Moretti,” Clara said softly, her voice carrying an icy edge that cut straight through the ambient classical music, “it’s funny you mention fake things.”
Marco’s smile wavered slightly. “What?”
Clara tilted her head. “Because while I was reviewing the Calvetti-Moretti joint venture tax filings from last year, I happened to notice an anomaly in your primary import line through the Saint Lawrence Seaway.”
She took a step sideways, placing herself between Marco and the crowd, looking down at her manicured nails.
“You’ve been reporting seafood shipments,” she murmured. “But the container weight logs from the Canadian customs manifest don't match fish. They match industrial lithium batteries. Unregistered batteries imported from a sanctioned state entity in Eastern Europe.”
Marco’s face went rigid. The color drained from his lips so fast it looked like he had been struck.
“You don't know what you're talking about,” Marco hissed, his eyes darting toward the crowd.
“I know exact container serial numbers, Marco,” Clara whispered back, her eyes flashing with lethal intelligence. “I know the three shell companies you used in Montreal. And I know that if those manifests were anonymously delivered to the Federal Trade Commission tomorrow morning, your entire northern distribution network would be frozen before lunch.”
She looked up at him, her smile brilliant and completely terrifying.
“My husband is a gentleman, Mr. Moretti,” Clara said smoothly. “He fights with guns and territorial pressure. I don't. I fight with audits. You touch my family, or you speak about my son again, and I won't just take your territory. I will strip your personal assets down to the socks you are currently wearing.”
Marco stood paralyzed, his champagne glass trembling slightly in his liver-spotted hand.
At that moment, Vincent returned, stepping up behind Clara. He placed a warm, heavy hand on the small of her back, his dark eyes fixing onto Marco’s pale face.
“Is there a problem here, Marco?” Vincent asked quietly.
Marco swallowed hard. He looked at Vincent, then looked at Clara—the poor, single mother whom every family in Chicago had assumed would be Vincent’s fatal weakness.
He realized, with sudden, terrifying clarity, that Vincent hadn't brought a victim into his house. He had brought an assassin who used numbers instead of bullets.
“No,” Marco stammered, taking a step backward. “No problem at all, Vincent. Just... paying my respects to your wife.”
Marco turned on his heel and walked away so fast he nearly collided with a waiter carrying a tray of drinks.
Vincent watched him flee, then turned to Clara, an amused glint in his eye. “What did you say to him?”
Clara adjusted her emerald bracelet and took a sip of her water. “Just discussing import tariffs, darling. Now, take me to get some dinner. I’m starving.”
May you like
Vincent looked at her, his heart swelling with a dark, intoxicating affection he had never believed he would feel for another human being. He bowed his head slightly.
“As you wish, my Queen.”
