Chapter 6 - The Gala of Wolves
The Plaza Hotel’s grand ballroom was a shimmering sea of gold leaf, crystal chandeliers, silk tuxedos, and million-dollar diamonds.
At 8:30 PM, the heavy mahogany double doors opened, and a sudden, electric hush fell over the three hundred guests inside.
Dominic Vale walked into the room.
He looked regal, imposing, and terrifyingly handsome in a custom midnight-black tuxedo that emphasized his broad shoulders and narrow waist. But the reason every breath in the ballroom caught wasn't Dominic.
It was the woman beside him.
Dominic had spent the afternoon ensuring I looked like absolute royalty. I wore a custom emerald-green silk gazar gown that draped magnificently over my full curves, highlighting my waist, revealing just enough of my shoulders, and sweeping the floor with a subtle, elegant train. My dark hair was styled in soft, cascading waves, and around my neck rested a vintage Cartier diamond choker from the Vale family vault.
Beside us, Gabe walked in holding a sleek, silver briefcase containing the secure laptop.
Across the room, standing near a towering champagne pyramid, Vanessa Sloan dropped her glass.
The crystal shattered against the marble floor, sparking a dozen startled gasps, but Vanessa didn't notice. Her face had drained of every drop of color. Beside her, Victor Ross—a silver-haired man in a sleek Italian suit—went completely rigid, his knuckles turning white around his glass.
“Dominic...” Victor stammered as we approached, trying desperately to force a warm smile onto his lying face. “We... we didn't expect you tonight. You said you were staying in Brooklyn.”
“I changed my mind, Victor,” Dominic said smoothly, his deep voice carrying easily across the silent crowd. “I heard my chief financial officer was securing a major foreign credit line, and I thought I should come support the firm. And, of course, introduce my guest.”
Victor’s panicked eyes shifted to me. “And who is this?”
“Abigail Mercer,” I said, stepping forward, my chin held high, my voice firm and ringing with absolute confidence. “Senior Forensic Accountant at Northstar Freight. Though I believe Miss Sloan knows me better as the woman whose apartment she had ransacked two days ago.”
Vanessa’s lips trembled violently. “I... I don't know what you’re talking about—”
“Gabe,” Dominic said calmly.
Gabe stepped up, plugged the silver briefcase into the grand ballroom's central audiovisual system, and pressed a single key.
Instantly, the massive sixty-foot presentation screens behind the main stage flashed to life.
Instead of Northstar’s promotional video, the screens displayed the live, decrypted ledger of Blue Wave Logistics. Millions of dollars in fraudulent transactions, ghost container manifests, off-shore account routing numbers, and signed wire transfers bearing Victor Ross’s and Vanessa Sloan’s electronic signatures were displayed in bright, high-resolution clarity for every banker, prosecutor, and elite investor in Manhattan to see.
Gasps echoed through the room like a wave.
“What is the meaning of this?!” one of the lead European bank directors shouted, stepping forward in outrage.
“The meaning,” I said, looking Victor Ross straight in the eye, “is that Northstar Freight’s collateral doesn't exist. It’s a forty-eight-million-dollar ghost shell designed to steal your investment and fund an illegal coup on the Manhattan docks.”
Victor’s face turned purple with rage. “You thieving little bitch—!”
Victor lunged forward, reaching into his suit jacket for a concealed weapon.
He never got the chance.
Dominic moved with the terrifying speed of a striking viper. He grabbed Victor’s wrist mid-air, twisting it backward with a sickening CRACK. Victor screamed in agony as the pistol fell uselessly to the marble floor.
Dominic didn't even pause. He swept his leg out, slamming Victor face-first onto the floor, and placed his heavy leather shoe squarely on the back of Victor’s neck.
At the same moment, four armed federal agents—whom Dominic had quietly alerted two hours earlier using the verified evidence file—shoved through the ballroom doors, surrounding Vanessa Sloan and pinning her arms behind her back.
“Victor Ross, Vanessa Sloan,” the lead federal agent announced loudly, pulling out handcuffs. “You are under arrest for wire fraud, embezzlement, corporate espionage, and grand larceny.”
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Dominic stood tall over his fallen CFO, his slate-grey eyes cold, calm, and utterly victorious. He turned toward the shocked crowd, adjusted his cuffs, and then held his hand out to me.
“Shall we go, Abigail?” Dominic asked softly. “We have a child at home who promised to show me how his dinosaur shoes light up in the dark.”
