Chapter 15 - The Drake Hotel
By eight o’clock that evening, the grand ballroom of the historic Drake Hotel was a sea of black silk, diamonds, and concealed firearms.
Chicago’s high society mingled seamlessly with the city’s most dangerous criminal royalty. Politicians, judges, and syndicate bosses drank vintage champagne under sparkling crystal chandeliers while armed bodyguards lined the gilded walls.
When the heavy double doors opened and the announcer spoke our names, the entire room fell dead silent.
“Victor Rossi. And Harper Vance.”
I took a deep breath, smoothing my hands over the emerald-green silk gown Victor had chosen for me. It fit like a second skin, elegant and devastating, pooling at my feet while a delicate diamond pendant rested against my collarbone. My hair was swept up, exposing the graceful line of my neck.
Beside me, Victor looked lethal in a custom black tuxedo, his posture immaculate, giving away not a single hint of the gunshot wound beneath his crisp white shirt.
He offered me his arm.
I slipped my hand into the crook of his elbow.
“Chin up, Harper,” Victor murmured, his lips barely moving as we stepped into the ballroom. “Let them look. You outshine every diamond in this room.”
A hundred pairs of eyes locked onto us. I saw the shock, the whispered murmurs, the cold calculation. Everyone knew who Victor Rossi was—a grieving widower who had shut himself away from society for three years. To see him return, powerful and commanding, with an unknown woman on his arm, sent shockwaves through the elite crowd.
At the far end of the room stood Lucian Moretti—a slick, silver-haired man in his late fifties with cold, reptilian eyes. Beside him stood a woman in a dazzling crimson dress: Lady Genevieve DuPont, a venomous socialite who had spent the last two years publicly trying to snare Victor as a husband.
As we approached the center of the room, Genevieve stepped forward, a patronizing, razor-sharp smile plastered across her painted lips.
“Victor, darling!” Genevieve purred, her eyes raking over me with immediate, visceral disgust. “We were so worried about you after the… *incident* at your estate. But really, Victor, bringing the hired help to the High Council? Did you run out of actual companions, or did you just need someone to hold your drink?”
A collective hush fell over the surrounding crowd.
My fingers tightened instinctively on Victor’s sleeve, preparing to endure the humiliation.
Victor slowly turned his head toward Genevieve. His gray eyes were so frigid that the socialite’s smile instantly wavered.
“Genevieve,” Victor said, his voice carrying clearly across the quiet room. “Speak to her with disrespect again, and I’ll have your father’s shipping licenses revoked by midnight.”
Genevieve’s face drained of color. “Victor, I was only—”
“Harper Vance is not the help,” Victor cut her off, stepping forward so that I stood squarely by his side, his hand dropping to rest possessively against the small of my back. “She is the woman who saved my son’s life while your friends were trying to end it. If you want to address her, you will do so with the respect you would show the queen of this city.”
Across the room, Lucian Moretti stepped forward, clapping his hands in a slow, mocking rhythm.
May you like
“Touching, Rossi,” Moretti sneered, surrounded by four hulking bodyguards. “A very touching speech for a dead man.”
***