Chapter 5 - The Gala of Wolves
The suburban estate in Oak Brook was less of a home and more of a private fortress disguised as an Italian Renaissance villa.
High wrought-iron gates gave way to a sweeping circular driveway lined with ancient oaks, where a dozen luxury sedans and sports cars were already parked. Armed security details patrolled the perimeter with Belgian Malinois attack dogs, while servers in black vests moved discreetly across flagstone terraces.
Beatrice stepped out of the Escalade, feeling every eye in the courtyard lock onto her.
She had refused the stylist Dominic tried to hire, choosing instead an empire-waist dress of dark plum velvet that hugged her full bust, flowed gracefully over her curves, and discreetly accommodated the supportive brace underneath her left sleeve. Her auburn hair was pinned up in a loose, elegant twist, soft tendrils framing her face.
Dominic stood beside her, clad in a bespoke midnight-blue suit that emphasized his lethal physique. Without asking, he offered his right arm.
"Ready?" he asked quietly.
"To walk into a den of organized criminals who think I’m an interloper?" Beatrice dryly remarked, slipping her uninjured hand into the crook of his elbow. "I used to run triage at midnight on New Year's Eve in Englewood. Your cousins don't scare me."
Dominic’s lips twitched. "God, I love that mouth."
Before Beatrice could process the jolt of electricity his words sent through her stomach, they walked through the grand double doors of the villa.
The central banquet hall was alive with the clinking of crystal, the rich scent of roasting lamb and aged Chianti, and the hum of thirty voices speaking in rapid, overlapping Italian and English. At the head of the room sat Salvatore Rossi, looking rested and regal in an ivory linen suit, flanked by senior family members.
As Dominic and Beatrice entered, the room went abruptly silent.
Every conversation died. Eyes dragged across Beatrice, assessing, dissecting, and judging. She heard the faint, disdainful murmurs from a cluster of women standing near the grand piano—slender, designer-clad mafia wives and daughters dripping in diamonds.
"Is that the caterer?" one woman whispered behind a manicured hand. "I heard she was an ambulance driver. Look at the size of her."
"Dominic brought a South Side stray to the family council?" another snickered softly. "Salvatore must be losing his mind."
Beatrice’s spine stiffened. The familiar, cold sting of shame threatened to creep up her neck—the lifetime of feeling too large, too loud, too unrefined for the polished rooms of the wealthy.
She began to pull her hand back from Dominic’s arm, intending to step into the background where she belonged.
She didn't get the chance.
Dominic’s hand clamped down over hers, trapping her fingers against his bicep with unbreakable strength. He didn't look at her; his head turned toward the women by the piano, his pale blue eyes turning to pure, sub-zero ice.
The room’s temperature plummeted. The whispering women froze, the smiles sliding off their faces as Dominic stared them down with lethal, terrifying intensity. One of the women visibly trembled, dropping her champagne flute onto the marble floor with a sharp, crystalline crash.
No one moved to clean it up.
"If anyone in this room has something to say about Beatrice Gallagher," Dominic announced, his voice carrying clearly to every corner of the vast hall, "say it to me now. Or leave Chicago before dawn."
Silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Not a single capo, cousin, or socialite dared to breathe.
Then Salvatore stood up from his chair.
The patriarch began to clap, slow and deliberate. The sharp claps echoed off the high ceiling.
"Beatrice!" Salvatore called out, his weathered face breaking into a radiant smile. "Come, my child. Come sit with me."
Dominic led her forward through the parted crowd, his hand moving down to rest firmly and possessively at the small of her back. Every person they passed bowed their heads slightly, yielding ground like sheep before wolves.
At the head table, Salvatore pulled out the chair directly to his right—a place of honor traditionally reserved for a caporegime or an allied boss.
"Sit, Beatrice," Salvatore insisted warmly, placing a heavy, antique signet ring on the white tablecloth before her. It bore the crest of the Rossi crest: a roaring lion wrapped in silver thorns. "Tonight, we celebrate the fact that I am still breathing to see my grandchildren. And we celebrate the woman who made that possible."
Beatrice sat, her heart pounding against her ribs, but her head held high.
Across the table sat a younger man with slicked-back dark hair, sharp features, and restless, calculating eyes. He wore an expensive charcoal suit with diamond cufflinks, but his smile didn't reach his eyes.
"Cousin Matteo," Dominic said flatly, pulling his own chair close to Beatrice’s, his body angled protectively toward her. "I thought you were overseeing the freight shipments in Gary."
"I took an early flight back when I heard Uncle Salvatore survived," Matteo replied smoothly, his gaze sliding over Beatrice with an oily, lingering appraisal. "I couldn't miss the chance to meet our... hero. Though I must admit, Dominic, she isn't your usual type. Usually, your companions look like they survive on lemon water and cigarette smoke."
A dangerous silence fell over the table.
Beatrice didn't wait for Dominic to respond. She leaned forward, resting her good elbow on the table, fixing Matteo with the deadpan, unimpressed stare she usually reserved for abusive drunks in the back of an ambulance.
"That's because lemon water doesn't give you the muscle mass to tackle a seventy-year-old man out of the path of a seven-point-six-two round, Matteo," Beatrice said calmly, picking up her wine glass with steady fingers. "If you ever spent ten minutes working a trauma bay instead of putting pomade in your hair, you'd know that."
A choked laugh erupted from Salvatore. The old man slapped the table in delight, his roaring belly laugh shattering the tension in the room.
"Dio mio!" Salvatore wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. "She has you by the throat, Matteo! She took the words right out of my mouth!"
Matteo’s smile curdled into a tight, hateful sneer, his knuckles whitening around his silver fork. But he forced a chuckle, dipping his head. "A woman with claws. How charming."
Dominic leaned in close to Beatrice, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. The warmth of his breath sent a shiver racing down her spine.
"Careful," he murmured, his voice thick with raw admiration and dark amusement. "Keep talking like that, and I won't wait until we get back to the Gold Coast to kiss you senseless."
Beatrice glanced sideways at him, her hazel eyes meeting his ice-blue gaze.
For the first time since the shooting, she didn't feel like a victim caught in a war she didn't understand. She felt dangerous. She felt seen.
May you like
And as Dominic’s hand found hers beneath the white linen tablecloth, interlacing his long, rough fingers with her own, Beatrice realized with sudden, terrifying clarity that she was falling headlong into love with Chicago’s most dangerous man.
---
