Chapter 9 - The Gala of Wolves
The Grand Ballroom of the Metropolitan Hotel was a cathedral of marble, crystal, and decadence. Hundreds of guests in black ties and designer gowns sipped vintage champagne beneath massive crystal chandeliers, surrounded by armed private security positioned discreetly at every exit.
When the grand double doors opened, the herald announced in a clear, resonant voice:
"Don Virgilio Marcelo."
The murmurs across the room died down instantly. Conversations stalled. Wine glasses paused halfway to lips.
Virgilio walked in with effortless, imposing swagger. But what truly sent a shockwave through the room was the woman on his arm.
Clara moved with quiet, understated grace. Though she felt the burn of two hundred pairs of calculating eyes, she kept her chin high, anchoring herself against Virgilio’s side. The midnight-blue silk swayed around her, making her appear like a nocturnal goddess emerging from the shadows.
"Who is she?" a corrupt city commissioner whispered to a mafia capo nearby. "I thought Marcelo didn't do women."
"Look at how he's holding her," the capo muttered back in awe. "That isn't a date. That's a queen."
Virgilio led Clara straight toward the central VIP terrace, acknowledging the respectful nods of local capos with brief, cold inclinations of his head.
Then, from the far side of the bar, a group of three men approached.
Leading them was Cruz—the treacherous lieutenant of Hector Morales. He was a wiry man with slicked hair, an arrogant smirk, and a diamond stud in his ear. Beside him walked two heavy-set bodyguards.
Cruz had come to the gala as Morales's regional emissary, unaware that his own betrayal had already been unmasked.
"Marcelo," Cruz sneered, blocking their path with an insolent grin. "Surprised you had the guts to show your face tonight after the message Don Hector sent to your territory."
Virgilio halted. His hand moved smoothly to cover Clara’s hand where it rested on his arm, giving her a reassuring squeeze.
"Cruz," Virgilio said, his tone as cold as an Arctic wind. "I didn't think Morales allowed his thieves to wear tuxedos."
Cruz’s smirk faltered slightly. "What did you say?"
Then, Cruz’s eyes dropped to Clara. A vile, patronizing laugh broke from his lips.
"Well, well, well. If it isn't Diego Reyes's little stray pup. Look at you, all dressed up in silk like a prize pig. Did you think sucking up to a local boss would save you from Don Hector?"
Clara felt a sharp stab of fear, but before she could shrink back, Virgilio moved.
*BAM.*
In full view of two hundred high-society guests, Virgilio’s right hand shot out like an iron vise, wrapping completely around Cruz’s throat. Virgilio lifted the grown man four inches off the marble floor with a single arm, driving him back against a decorative marble pillar.
The ballroom erupted in gasps and frantic whispers. Cruz’s two bodyguards reached for their jackets, but Mateo and Dante appeared like specters from behind, placing suppressed barrels directly behind their ears.
"Draw, and you die right here," Mateo murmured.
Cruz kicked his legs, his face turning a horrific shade of purple as Virgilio squeezed his windpipe shut.
"You speak to her with respect," Virgilio whispered into Cruz’s bulging eyes, his voice dripping with venom. "Or I will tear your tongue out through your throat."
Virgilio leaned closer, speaking so only Cruz could hear:
"I have the ledger, Cruz. I know about the twenty-two million you stole from Morales. I have the bank accounts. In two hours, Hector will receive the proof of your treason. Your own master will flay you alive."
Terror—pure, paralyzing terror—flooded Cruz’s face. He stopped thrashing, his eyes pleading for mercy.
Virgilio released his grip. Cruz dropped to the marble floor in a pathetic heap, coughing violently and clutching his bruised throat.
Virgilio turned his back on the disgraced lieutenant, retrieved a flute of sparkling cider from a passing waiter's tray, and handed it to Clara.
"You see, Clara?" Virgilio said loud enough for the entire room to hear. "Wolves only bark when they think you're prey. The moment they realize you run with the pack, they crawl on their bellies."
May you like
Clara took the glass, her eyes shining with newfound strength. She looked down at the crawling thug who had terrorized her father, and for the first time in her life, she felt no fear at all.
***