Chapter 5 - The Sabotage at the Gala
The explosion at the front gates turned out to be a calculated diversion—a smoke bomb set off by a rogue faction of the Rossi syndicate to test the estate’s outer perimeter response. Dante’s security forces neutralized the threat within minutes, and no one inside the main house was physically harmed. But the attack left a permanent scar on the fragile peace I had built with Leo.
For three days following the breach, Dante barely slept. I would often see his tall, imposing silhouette standing by the third-floor balcony late at night, smoking a cigarette as he surveyed his darkened empire, looking every bit the tragic, solitary king.
Yet, despite the looming threat of an all-out turf war, Dante insisted on proceeding with a high-stakes, mandatory charity gala he was hosting at the Plaza Hotel in Manhattan—an annual event where the city’s elite, corporate tycoons, and syndicate leaders gathered under the guise of philanthropy.
“Leo is coming with us,” Dante told me firmly on the evening of the gala, standing in the doorway of my suite as I finished zipping up a modest, elegant emerald-green silk dress.
I turned around, staring at him in disbelief. “Dante, are you insane? After what happened at the gates? A crowded ballroom in Manhattan is a thousand times more dangerous for Leo than staying here.”
“If I hide him, they win,” Dante said, his gray eyes flashing with unyielding stubbornness. “If I keep him locked away, the syndicates will view it as a weakness—a vulnerability they can exploit. But if he walks into the Plaza standing tall beside his father—and his therapist—it sends a message that the Moretti family is untouchable.”
He stepped closer, his gaze softening as he looked down at me. “And I need you there, Clara. You’re the only one who can keep the noise from drowning him out.”
When we arrived at the grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel, the atmosphere was suffocating. Hundreds of glittering chandeliers illuminated tuxedo-clad billionaires, diamond-adorned socialites, and men with cold, calculating eyes who bowed low when Dante Moretti walked past.
Leo wore a small, tailored black tuxedo with his noise-canceling headphones securely over his ears, his small fingers pinched tightly into the emerald fabric of my dress sleeve as we walked across the parquet floor.
“Too loud,” Leo whispered, his breathing growing shallow as the wall-to-wall chatter of five hundred elite guests echoed off the vaulted ceilings.
“I know, buddy,” I murmured, kneeling slightly to his eye level amidst the sea of expensive gowns. “Focus on my voice. Just my voice. One, two. Breathe.”
Dante walked beside us, his hand resting protectively on Leo’s shoulder, projecting an aura of terrifying calm. But I could see the rigid tension in Dante’s jaw. He knew as well as I did that every rival boss in the tristate area was watching them right now, waiting for a single crack in the armor.
The crisis hit halfway through the dinner service.
Without warning, the ballroom’s main sound system shrieked with a horrific, ear-splitting burst of static feedback—a high-pitched electronic screech designed specifically to overwhelm sensory-processing disorders.
Panic erupted among the guests.
Leo slammed his hands over his ears, a terrifying, wordless scream tearing from his throat as he collapsed to the marble floor, shaking uncontrollably from the sensory overload.
“Leo!” Dante roared, dropping to his knees beside his son, his protective instincts overriding his mob boss composure. But Dante’s frantic voice only added to the auditory chaos.
Across the ballroom, I saw a familiar face standing near the service doors—Julian, the ruthless enforcer who had questioned my presence weeks ago, wearing a cold, knowing smirk. He had sabotaged the audio board.
I didn't hesitate. I didn't care about the hundreds of staring elites.
I rushed to the grand piano stationed on the elevated stage at the front of the room. I didn't wait for permission. I sat down, slammed my fingers onto the keys, and began to play—not with classical refinement, but with a heavy, rhythmic, thunderous bassline that cut straight through the screeching static.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
A steady, grounding heartbeat rhythm echoing through the hotel’s massive acoustics.
I sang out, my voice clear and loud over the piano:
“Blue... soft blue... find the rhythm, Leo. Hear my voice.”
On the marble floor, amid the staring billionaires and whispering rivals, Leo stopped screaming. He opened his tear-filled eyes, lifted his head, and locked his gaze onto mine across the ballroom.
May you like
Slowly, shakily, he pushed himself up from the floor. He ignored the whispers, ignored the staring crowds, and walked straight across the dance floor toward the stage, his small fingers finding the hem of my emerald dress once again.
Dante rose slowly behind him, his gray eyes burning with a terrifying, apocalyptic fury as he turned his gaze across the room straight toward Julian, who was suddenly looking very pale indeed.
