Chapter 4 - The Midnight Gala
Upstairs, the grand ballroom was a swirling vortex of luxury, champagne, and deceit.
Crystal chandeliers cascaded light over silk gowns and tailored tuxedos, while a string quartet played a lively Vivaldi concerto from the elevated gallery. Laughter bubbled up from groups of wealthy socialites, city councilmen, and syndicate associates who toasted to the unshakeable power of the Moretti name.
Standing near the tall French doors overlooking the snowy Hudson River was Victoria Moretti.
She held a flute of golden champagne in her manicured hand, laughing lightly at a joke made by a prominent federal prosecutor standing beside her. To anyone looking in from the outside, she was the picture of effortless grace—the beautiful, untouchable queen of a Manhattan empire.
Yet, beneath her calm exterior, a subtle tension tugged at the corners of her mouth. Every time the heavy oak doors of the ballroom creaked open, her eyes flicked toward the entrance with a sharp, hunted flash of anxiety.
She had expected the poison to work swiftly. By now, the guards should have discovered Alejandro’s body slumped across the study rug. The panic should have set in. The estate should have been thrown into chaos, leaving her perfectly positioned to trigger her pre-prepared legal maneuvers and seize control of the corporate holdings before dawn.
Instead, the party continued. The music played on. And Alejandro was nowhere to be found.
"Is everything alright, my dear?" the prosecutor asked, noticing her momentary distraction.
Victoria blinked, instantly recovering her radiant smile. "Of course, Arthur. Just... wondering where my husband wandered off to. You know how obsessive he is about his real estate portfolios."
"Well, Alejandro has always been a restless man," the prosecutor chuckled, raising his glass. "Though I must say, marrying you has brought a remarkable softness to him. It's good for the city to see the Moretti dynasty settling into domestic peace."
Before Victoria could reply, the string quartet in the gallery suddenly stopped playing.
Not with a natural fade, but with a sharp, discordant screech of horsehair scraping across steel strings as the lead violinist dropped his bow.
A heavy, suffocating silence swept across the ballroom like a sudden frost.
Every head turned toward the grand double doors at the front of the hall.
The heavy mahogany panels swung open with a slow, deliberate creak.
Standing in the doorway was Alejandro Moretti.
He wore a fresh, immaculate black tuxedo, his dark hair neatly combed, his posture as rigid and commanding as an iron monolith. There was no trace of gray on his skin, no weakness in his step, and no sign of the man who had been suffocating on the study rug less than an hour ago.
Beside him walked Dante Cruz, carrying a sleek black briefcase. And trailing slightly behind them, holding tightly to my hand in my oversized maid-daughter dress and pink rabbit backpack, was me.
Gasps rippled through the crowd of elite guests. Whispers broke out like wildfire.
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“Isn't that the housekeeper’s kid?” “I thought Alejandro was reviewing contracts in Sicily tonight—why does he look like he’s walking into a firing squad?”
Victoria’s champagne glass slipped from her fingers. It shattered against the polished marble floor, the golden liquid splashing across the toes of her expensive designer heels like spilled blood.
