Chapter 4 - Blood at the Gala
The Grand Ballroom of the Drake Hotel was packed with Chicago's elite—politicians, judges, corporate moguls, and high-ranking syndicate bosses dressed in tuxedos and evening gowns.
I stood three paces behind Dawson, wearing a sleek black evening dress that Vittorio’s stylists had selected for me. My eyes scanned the room continuously, keeping track of every server, guard, and guest who approached our section.
Dawson was standing near the bar, sipping sparkling water—just as I had ordered—and holding a civil conversation with a senior city councilman regarding zoning permits for Pier 31. He looked magnificent, cold, and entirely in control.
"You're doing surprisingly well, Miss Vance," a smooth voice whispered from behind me.
I turned to see Marco Moretti—Dawson’s younger cousin and the syndicate’s chief financial officer. Marco was sharp, thin, with calculated eyes and a smile that never quite reached his face.
"He's capable when he wants to be, Mr. Moretti," I replied politely.
"Careful, Clara," Marco smiled, taking a glass of champagne from a passing tray. "Dawson is a wild dog. My uncle thinks you can tame him, but when a wild dog gets cornered, it bites everyone—including the person holding the leash."
Before I could answer, a sudden commotion broke out near the main entrance.
Three heavy glass doors shattered inward!
Screams echoed through the ballroom as six armed men in tactical gear burst into the room, raising automatic weapons toward the VIP stage where Dawson and his father were standing!
"Down!" Dawson roared, his reaction instant and violent.
Before I could even process the gunfire, Dawson grabbed my waist, lifted me off my feet, and threw both of us behind a heavy mahogany bar as bullets tore through the crystal chandeliers above, showering us in glass!
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The room erupted into absolute chaos. Guests shrieked, scrambling for the emergency exits, while Moretti security guards drew their weapons and returned fire.
From behind the bar, Dawson pulled a matte-black handgun from his shoulder holster. His face wasn't terrified—it was transformed by a dark, intoxicating adrenaline.
"Stay here," Dawson ordered, his voice commanding and thick with lethal promise. "Don't move an inch."
"Dawson, wait!" I cried out, grabbing his sleeve.
May you like
He looked down at my hand on his arm, his eyes burning with amber fire. He leaned down, pressed his lips fiercely against mine for one agonizing, electrifying second, and whispered, "I don't let anyone touch what's mine."
He pulled away, ducked around the mahogany bar, and opened fire with terrifying precision.
