Chapter 3 - The Ball and the Armor
The interrogation of Julian was swift, silent, and brutal, handled far away from the main house in the subterranean wine cellars. By midnight, Julian was handed over to federal authorities via an anonymous tip that ruined the Moretti syndicate’s distribution chain in one fell swoop.
However, the threat was far from over.
To seal the power vacuum and prove to the five families that the Mancini empire was stronger than ever, Dante was required to attend the annual Winter Gala at the Plaza Hotel—a high-stakes gathering of New York’s elite, corrupt politicians, and undercover mob bosses.
On Thursday afternoon, a massive black velvet box arrived in Arya’s suite.
Inside lay a breathtaking gown made of midnight-blue silk. It had a sweetheart neckline, a daring thigh-high slit, and was accompanied by a platinum necklace encrusted with sapphires that glittered like starlight.
Attached was a handwritten note in Dante’s sharp, commanding script:
You said you were my equal in this house. Tonight, prove it to the city. Be ready at seven.
At seven o'clock, Dante stood at the foot of the grand staircase in the main foyer. He wore a tailored black tuxedo that highlighted his broad shoulders and commanding stature.
Footsteps echoed from the landing above.
Dante looked up—and stopped breathing.
Arya descended the stairs like a goddess emerging from the shadows. The midnight-blue dress hugged every curve of her body perfectly. Her dark hair was styled in soft, cascading waves over one shoulder, and the sapphires around her neck caught the golden light of the chandeliers. She wore her confidence like armor.
When she reached the bottom step, Dante offered his arm. His dark eyes burned with an intense, possessive light.
“You look... breathtaking,” Dante said, his voice unusually gravelly.
“You don't look too bad yourself, Don Mancini,” Arya replied smoothly, placing her hand on his forearm. The warmth of his muscle beneath the wool made her blood run warm. “What’s the assignment tonight?”
“Play the part of my companion,” Dante whispered, leaning down so his lips brushed her ear. “Smile at the judges. Ignore the murderers. And do not leave my side for a single second.”
“I survived three of your sons throwing porcelain at my head,” Arya whispered back with a subtle smirk. “I think I can handle a few mobsters in tuxedos.”
The ballroom at the Plaza was a palace of gold leaf, crystal glass, and deadly secrets. Hundreds of New York’s most powerful people milled about, sipping champagne while bodyguards lined the perimeter walls.
The moment Dante Mancini entered with Arya on his arm, the room went dead silent.
Whispers rippled through the crowd like poison.
"Is that Mancini?" "Who is the woman?" "I thought he was untouchable... who is she?"
Dante navigated the room with practiced, icy grace. He introduced Arya to senators, judges, and shipping magnates. Arya held her own effortlessly—she was sharp, witty, and possessed an innate street-smarts that allowed her to see right through the fake smiles of high society.
Suddenly, a heavy, greasy voice cut through the air behind them.
“Well, well, well. The great Dante Mancini finally emerges from his dark castle.”
Dante turned slowly.
Standing there was Sal Moretti—head of the Moretti syndicate. He was a bloated, ruthless man in his fifties, flanked by four heavily armed enforcers disguised as guests.
Sal’s slimy gaze slid down Arya’s dress, lingering on her curves with distasteful hunger.
“And who is this lovely piece of meat?” Sal sneered, stepping closer. “Don’t tell me you hired a new street whore to replace your dead wife, Dante?”
The temperature in the ballroom plunged to absolute zero.
Dante’s hand moved toward his jacket—a movement that would end in a bloodbath right on the dance floor.
Before Dante could draw his weapon, Arya stepped directly in front of him.
She looked Sal Moretti up and down with a look of supreme, icy disgust.
“Mr. Moretti, I presume?” Arya said, her voice carrying clearly across the quieted room. “I’ve heard so much about you. Mainly that your cheap cologne smells like bad decisions and bankrupt dock leases.”
Sal’s face turned an ugly shade of crimson. “What did you say to me, girl?”
“I said you look like a man who relies on loud threats because his bank accounts are draining faster than his hairline,” Arya replied calmly, taking a slow sip of her champagne. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, Don Mancini and I have actual important people to talk to.”
Gasps echoed through the crowd.
Sal’s enforcers reached inside their jackets, but Dante moved like a strike of lightning. He stepped beside Arya, drawing his sleek black pistol, pressing the barrel directly beneath Sal’s chin before anyone could react.
“Listen to me very carefully, Sal,” Dante growled, his voice a lethal whisper that chilled the entire room. “You insult my late wife again, or you look at this woman with anything less than absolute respect, and I will paint this marble floor with your brains before your guards can clear their holsters.”
Sal swallowed hard, sweating profusely, staring into the eyes of a true demon. “You... you’re crazy, Mancini.”
“Get out of my sight,” Dante commanded flatly.
Sal backed away hastily, his guards trailing behind him like whipped dogs.
May you like
Dante lowered his weapon, tucking it back into his holster. He turned to Arya. His chest was heaving, his dark eyes filled with a terrifying mix of adrenaline and raw, consuming passion.
Without a word, he grabbed her by the hand and pulled her out of the ballroom, down a private marble hallway, and shoved open the door to his private executive suite, locking it behind them.
