Six hours of screaming had pushed Dominic Moretti to the edge, and everyone inside the Chicago restaurant knew better than to go near him. Then I crossed the dining room, looked the most feared mafia boss in the city straight in the eye, and told him, “You’re hurting your own baby.”

A month after the attack on the estate, Dominic decided it was time to show the city that the Moretti family was not only alive, but completely untouchable.

The annual Chicago Children's Hospital Charity Gala was held at the Drake Hotel—a high-society event attended by politicians, business tycoons, and subtle syndicate heads operating under the guise of legitimate businessmen.

Dominic insisted I attend as his official guest.

"I don't have a dress for a gala, Dominic," I argued as we stood in the estate library two days before the event.

"That problem has already been solved," Dominic replied smoothly.

An hour later, a team of high-end Italian tailors arrived at the mansion with racks of designer gowns. I ended up selecting an off-the-shoulder, deep navy silk dress that draped gracefully to the floor, hugging my waist and accentuating the pale line of my collarbone.

When I stepped down the grand staircase on the evening of the gala, Dominic was waiting at the bottom in a bespoke black tuxedo.

He stopped breathing.

His dark eyes swept over me slowly, from my styled hair down to the hem of my dress. For five full seconds, the terrifying syndicate leader stood completely speechless.

"You look..." Dominic began, his deep voice thick with emotion. "You look breathtaking, Clara."

"Thank you," I blushed, holding the sides of my silk dress. "Is Mateo settled with Frank?"

"Frank has six armed guards surrounding the nursery," Dominic assured me, stepping forward and offering his broad arm. "Tonight, you are my queen."

The ballroom of the Drake Hotel was a sea of crystal chandeliers, champagne towers, and velvet gowns.

When Dominic Moretti entered the room with me on his arm, the chatter ceased almost instantly. Whispers erupted among the crowd.

"Is that Moretti?" "I thought Falcone blew up his house last month!" "Who is the woman with him? She looks like a princess..."

Dominic ignored them, walking with cool, terrifying confidence toward the VIP section.

Suddenly, a tall, gaunt man with thin lips and cold, reptilian eyes stepped out from behind a champagne column.

Lucian Falcone.

Beside him stood three of his senior captains, their hands resting ominously inside their tuxedo jackets.

"Dominic," Falcone sneered, taking a slow sip of his wine. "I was surprised to see your name on the guest list. I heard you had some... structural damage at your country home."

"A minor renovation, Lucian," Dominic replied smoothly, his hand tightening imperceptibly over mine. "We cleared out the rat infestation. The house is much cleaner now."

Falcone’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. His gaze shifted from Dominic to me, his cold eyes scanning my face.

"And who is this delicate flower?" Falcone asked, stepping closer. "Another nurse for your sick bastard child?"

Before Dominic could move, I stepped forward, holding my head high, my eyes locking onto Falcone with cool, icy disdain.

"My name is Clara Vance, Mr. Falcone," I said, my voice carrying clearly over the hushed crowd. "And if you ever refer to a helpless infant as a 'bastard' again, I will personally explain to this entire room how a man with your advanced liver cirrhosis shouldn't be drinking third-rate prosecco."

Gasps echoed through the nearby guests.

Dominic’s mouth twitched into a glorious, proud smirk.

Falcone went dark red with humiliation. "You loud-mouthed little bitch—"

"Choose your next words with extreme care, Lucian," Dominic interrupted, his tone dropping into a lethal whisper that made Falcone’s bodyguards step back. "Because if you disrespect my woman again, I won't wait for the Commission's approval to tear your family apart."

Falcone swallowed hard, recognizing the immediate threat in Dominic’s eyes. He backed away into the crowd, muttering under his breath.

"You are incredible," Dominic whispered into my ear, his hand sliding around my waist, pulling me close against his side as the orchestra began to play a waltz.

"He annoyed me," I replied, resting my head against his shoulder as he led me onto the dance floor.

For ten minutes, we floated across the polished floor, Dominic moving with surprising grace for a man of his size. His hand on my lower back was warm, strong, and protective.

"Clara," Dominic murmured, looking down at me as the song ended.

"Yes?"

"Look at the balcony."

I looked up toward the grand mezzanine.