Chapter 6 - The Boss's Protection
Two weeks later, the annual Commission Dinner was held at the St. Regis Hotel in Manhattan.
It was the most high-stakes night of the year for the American underworld—a formal, black-tie gathering where the heads of the Five Families met to negotiate territories, settle disputes, and display their power.
In years past, Lorenzo Rossi had attended alone, a dark, solitary figure who struck terror into the hearts of every Don in the room.
Tonight was different.
The grand doors of the St. Regis ballroom swung open, announced by two formal guards.
Lorenzo walked into the hall wearing a tailored velvet tuxedo, looking every inch the king of New York. But he wasn't alone.
Tucked securely into his left arm was Hunter.
The room went dead silent. Two hundred mafia bosses, high-society wives, corrupt politicians, and high-ranking capos stopped drinking their champagne, staring at the woman beside Lorenzo Rossi.
Hunter took every breath away in the room.
She wore a custom emerald-green silk gown that clung to her curves with breathtaking grace, flowing down into a subtle train behind her. Her dark hair was styled in intricate vintage waves, adorned with a diamond hairpin that belonged to the Rossi estate vault. Her chin was held high, her posture proud and dignified, though her fingers trembled slightly where they rested against Lorenzo’s sleeve.
Walking behind them, held safely in the arms of Mateo and two senior security guards, was three-month-old Leo, looking healthy, chubby, and vibrant in a miniature silk suit.
A wave of astonished whispers rippled through the crowd.
“Is that the maid?” an elder capo whispered near the bar. “The one who cured the Rossi heir?”
“Look at her diamonds,” a socialite gasped. “He’s treating her like a queen!”
Lorenzo led Hunter to the head table, pulling out the velvet-cushioned chair for her himself—a gesture of respect he had never shown to any woman in public before.
Sitting across the long table was Don Carmine Moretti.
Seventy years old. White hair, yellowed eyes like a vulture, wearing a custom navy suit. Beside him sat his eldest son, Marco Moretti—a cruel, arrogant man with a gold tooth and a scar across his neck.
Carmine sneered, leaning forward over his silver cane. “Lorenzo. I heard a rumor that you were keeping a common house servant in your grand mansion. I didn't believe it until I saw her sitting at the Commission table.”
The surrounding bosses held their breath, expecting Lorenzo to ignore the insult.
Instead, Lorenzo slowly turned his head toward Carmine. His dark eyes were devoid of any light—just cold, lethal void.
“Carmine,” Lorenzo said, his voice carrying clearly across the silent ballroom. “You are old. Your memory is failing you.”
Carmine’s face flushed red. “What did you say?”
“The woman sitting beside me,” Lorenzo announced, placing his broad hand over Hunter’s on the table, “is Hunter Vance. She is the savior of my bloodline, the mother of my household, and the protected ward of the Rossi Syndicate.”
Marco Moretti spat onto the polished floor, laughing mockingly. “A ward? She’s a wet nurse, Lorenzo! You’re bedding the help because your wife burned to death in a car!”
CRASH!
Before Marco could finish his sentence, Lorenzo reached across the five-foot mahogany table with terrifying, supernatural speed.
His large hand grabbed Marco by his silk collar, dragging the six-foot-two mobster headfirst across the dinner plates, smashing glass flutes and floral arrangements, until Marco’s face was pinned flat against the mahogany table.
Guns were drawn instantly across the room. Forty guards raised automatic weapons.
Lorenzo didn't even look at the guns. He reached out with his right hand, grabbed a heavy silver steak knife from the place setting, and drove it deep into the wooden table, half an inch from Marco’s golden tooth.
Marco shrieked in terror, his eyes wide with wild panic.
“Say another word about my wife,” Lorenzo whispered into Marco’s ear, his voice so cold it froze the blood in everyone’s veins. “Say another word about Hunter. And I will cut your tongue out and feed it to the dogs in Central Park.”
Don Carmine stood up frantically, his hands shaking on his cane. “Lorenzo! Stand down! This is a peace summit!”
“There is no peace with snakes, Carmine,” Lorenzo growled, releasing Marco’s collar with a shove that sent the younger man sprawling onto the carpet, coughing and bleeding from his lip.
Lorenzo stood up, pulling Hunter gently to her feet. He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her close against his side, showing the entire underworld that she was under his absolute protection.
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“The Rossi family,” Lorenzo declared, looking around at the two hundred stunned guests, “is whole again. Anyone who touches Hunter Vance touches me. And anyone who touches my son will answer to my guns.”
He turned and led Hunter out of the ballroom, his head held high, leaving the rulers of New York in absolute, terrified awe.
