Chapter 6 - The Waterfront Gala
Two weeks after the bombing at the Bay Ridge estate, the New York social scene was buzzing with whispers about the annual Brooklyn Waterfront Charity Gala. Held at a sprawling glass pavilion overlooking the East River, the event was a glittering nexus where high-society philanthropists, corrupt politicians, and powerful syndicate bosses rubbed shoulders under the guise of funding children’s hospitals and art museums.
And Antonio Russo had decided I was going to be his date.
“I can’t wear this,” I muttered, staring at my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror of the master suite dressing room.
The dress had arrived in a matte-black box that morning with a simple note written in Antonio’s sharp, decisive handwriting: Wear this. Let them see who stands beside me.
It was an off-the-shoulder midnight-blue silk gown that hugged my curves before cascading down in a fluid, elegant sweep. It cost more than my entire college tuition for a semester. Diamonds glittered around the neckline—discreet, understated, but carrying a price tag that made my head spin.
The dressing room door clicked open, and Antonio walked in. He wore a bespoke tuxedo that fit him like a second skin, his dark hair neatly combed back. He stopped dead in his tracks, his dark eyes sweeping over me from head to toe.
The silence stretched between us, thick and electric.
“Well?” I asked, nervously smoothing the fabric over my hips. “Does it pass inspection, boss?”
Antonio slowly closed the distance between us, his footsteps silent on the thick carpet. He stopped inches away, the clean scent of cedarwood and amber enveloping me. He reached out, his warm fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
“Inspection,” Antonio murmured, his voice dropping into a husky whisper, “is an understatement. You look dangerous, Sophie.”
“Dangerous? In a silk dress?”
“In that dress,” he replied, a slow, predatory smile touching his lips, “every man in that ballroom is going to want what I have. And every woman is going to wonder how a former diner waitress managed to tame the monster of Brooklyn.”
“Who said you were tamed?” I challenged, raising my chin.
“Touché.”
Ten minutes later, we stepped out of a matte-black Maybach directly onto the red carpet outside the glass pavilion. Camera flashes erupted like a thunderstorm. Microphones thrust forward, reporters shouting questions over the hum of the river.
“Mr. Russo! Who is your companion?” “Is it true the Moretti syndicate has surrendered its shipping lanes to you?” “Miss! Are you affiliated with the Russo holding group?”
I froze under the blinding glare of the lights, instinctively shrinking back.
Antonio didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his arm securely around my waist, pulling me firmly against his side. His touch was an anchor, warm and unyielding. He didn't answer a single question; he simply guided me through the pack of reporters with the effortless authority of a king walking through his courtyard.
Inside, the ballroom was a blinding expanse of crystal chandeliers, flowing champagne, and elite socialites draped in haute couture.
As we walked down the grand staircase, the ambient chatter of the room noticeably died down. Dozens of pairs of eyes turned toward us—some filled with curiosity, others with thinly veiled venom.
Among them stood Julian Vance—not our Vane, but Julian Vance, the arrogant billionaire heir to a real estate empire who had tried to hit on me back when I was working at Bellarosa. He stood with a glass of champagne in hand, his jaw dropping as he recognized the girl on the arm of the most dangerous man in the city.
“Well, well,” Julian sneered loudly enough for half the room to hear, stepping into our path with a condescending smirk. “If it isn’t the little waitress from Bellarosa. Did Antonio hire you as a hostess for the night, sweetheart? Or do they let the waitstaff dress up for charity now?”
The temperature in the room dropped to absolute zero.
Before I could open my mouth to cut Julian down to size, Antonio stepped forward.
He didn’t yell. He didn’t draw a weapon. He simply looked down at Julian Julian as if he were a disgusting insect crawling across a pristine white tablecloth.
“Julian,” Antonio said, his voice dripping with icy contempt. “Your father’s commercial properties on Atlantic Avenue are currently in foreclosure, and my holding company holds ninety percent of his debt. If you ever speak to the future Mrs. Russo with that tone of voice again, I will foreclose on your family’s entire portfolio before you finish your champagne.”
Julian’s face turned the color of curdled milk. He took two stumbling steps backward, dropped his champagne glass onto a passing waiter's tray, and fled into the crowd without uttering a single word.
I stared up at Antonio in stunned disbelief.
Future Mrs. Russo?
May you like
Antonio looked down at me, his dark eyes burning with an intense, unwavering heat.
“You heard me,” he whispered softly over the strains of the orchestra playing across the room. “And if anyone else has a problem with it... let them try to take you from me.”
