Chapter 3 - Dangerous Proximity
The Drake Hotel ballroom was a sea of crystal chandeliers, flowing champagne, and perfumed hypocrisy.
Violins swelled from the balcony, playing a melancholic waltz that masked the ruthless negotiations happening at every round table. Men in custom tuxedoes clinked scotch glasses while trading shipping routes and municipal zoning permits, while women dripping in diamonds observed each other with predatory smiles.
I stood beside Helena Voss near the terrace doors, my fingers smoothing down the skirt of my dress.
Adrian had not spared any expense. That morning, three seamstresses had arrived at the manor with racks of haute couture gowns. The one Helena had chosen for me was a masterpiece of deep emerald silk that clung to my waist and fell in heavy, liquid folds to the marble floor. The neckline was elegant yet bold, framing my collarbones, and my hair had been swept up into a soft chignon, secured with diamond-tipped pins.
"Stop fidgeting, child," Helena murmured, sipping her ginger ale from a champagne flute. "You look stunning. You look like you own the room, which is the only way to survive in it."
"I feel like a sheep disguised as a wolf," I whispered back.
"Nonsense. Wolves are predictable. They only care about hunger. A woman with principles is far more dangerous. Ah, look. The vultures are circling."
Across the crowded floor, heads began to turn.
Adrian Voss had just entered the ballroom.
The chatter in his immediate vicinity died down like a fading tide. He wore a midnight-black tuxedo that accentuated the broad span of his shoulders and the lean, lethal cut of his frame. Beside him walked Julian and two towering associates whose suit jackets bulged discreetly under their left arms. Adrian didn't smile; his face was carved from granite as he nodded curtly to an appellate court judge who looked terrified just to be acknowledged.
Then Adrian's gaze swept across the glittering crowd, cutting through the sea of socialites until it locked onto me.
His step faltered for a fraction of a second.
His eyes traveled down the emerald silk, taking in every curve, before rising back to meet my gaze. A raw, dark heat flared in his eyes—so intense, so possessive, that my breath hitched and the skin on my arms pebbled with goosebumps.
He began walking straight toward us, parting the crowd like the Red Sea.
"Well, well," Helena chuckled softly beside me. "It seems my grandson has finally remembered how to appreciate fine art."
"Good evening, Grandmother," Adrian said as he reached our table, though his eyes barely lingered on the old woman before snapping right back to me. "Miss Carter."
"Mr. Voss," I said, tilting my head. "You cleaned up nicely."
"You look..." He stopped, his jaw tightening as if he were wrestling with words he wasn't accustomed to saying out loud. "...breathtaking, Sophie."
A blush burned on my cheeks. Before I could formulate a witty retort, an oily, grating voice shattered the moment from behind us.
"Adrian. I was wondering when the king of the north docks would grace us with his presence."
A man in a flashy white tuxedo with slicked-back dark hair and a gold signet ring approached, flanked by three men whose hands stayed firmly inside their coat pockets. He looked around thirty-five, with cold, reptile eyes and a sneer etched permanently into his thin mouth.
*Dante Moretti.*
I recognized him instantly from the briefing files Adrian had given me that morning. The younger brother of the Moretti cartel boss, Dante was known throughout the underworld as an impulsive, violent loose cannon who was desperate to prove his ruthlessness.
Adrian didn't even turn his body. He merely shifted his weight, positioning himself half a step in front of me—a subtle, instinctive barrier of steel.
"Dante," Adrian said, his voice flat and indifferent. "I thought this event had a minimum net-worth requirement."
Dante’s sneer hardened. "Always witty, Voss. Enjoy your jokes while your container ships still clear the channel. Rumor has it the port authorities are finding all sorts of... discrepancies in your manifests."
"The port authorities work for me, Dante," Adrian replied coldly. "And whatever your brother told you to say tonight, remember this: the last time a Moretti tried to negotiate with me in public, he went home in a crate."
The temperature between the two men dropped to sub-zero. Dante's hand twitched toward his lapel, but before he could move, Adrian's associate Julian shifted his stance, the muzzle of his suppressed weapon printing clearly through his jacket fabric.
Dante forced a laugh, but his gaze drifted over Adrian's shoulder, landing directly on me.
His eyes narrowed with slimy interest. "Who's the little bird, Adrian? I didn't think you brought your street stray to high-society galas. You look familiar, sweetheart. Weren't you wiping ketchup off tables at The Linden Room on Tuesday?"
Whispers broke out among the nearby socialites. Several women lifted their glasses to hide their cruel smirks.
A wave of humiliation rushed through me, but before it could take root, I stepped out from behind Adrian's shoulder.
"I was," I said clearly, projecting my voice so every eavesdropper could hear. "I spent Tuesday earning an honest living with my own hands. Which is why I recognize trash the second it starts speaking."
A dead hush fell over the perimeter.
Dante's eyes widened in disbelief. "What did you say to me, you little—"
He took a step forward, raising a hand as if to grab my arm.
He never finished the movement.
In a blur of motion too fast for the eye to track, Adrian closed the distance. His left hand clamped onto Dante's throat like a hydraulic vice, slamming the mobster backward against a marble pillar with a sickening crunch. Glasses rattled on nearby tables.
Adrian’s face was inches from Dante’s. The civilized veneer had vanished completely; what stood before Dante was an executioner.
"Touch her," Adrian whispered, his voice vibrating with lethal fury, "and I will tear your family apart brick by brick, starting with your throat."
Dante gasped for air, his feet barely touching the marble floor, his face turning purple under Adrian's iron grip. Dante’s three bodyguards reached for their jackets, but within a millisecond, five of Adrian’s men appeared from the shadows, pressing suppressed barrels directly against the backs of their skulls.
"One move," Julian whispered calmly into the lead guard's ear, "and you die before he hits the carpet."
"Adrian," Helena’s voice rang out—crisp, calm, and commanding. "Not on the marble. It stains."
Adrian held Dante against the pillar for three agonizing seconds longer. Then, with casual contempt, he threw the man to the ground.
Dante hit the floor coughing and wheezing, clutching his bruised throat. His guards frantically scrambled to haul him to his feet.
"Get out," Adrian told them, adjusting his tuxedo cuffs as if he had merely brushed away a piece of lint. "Before I decide to end this feud tonight."
Dante, glaring at Adrian and then at me with pure venom, was dragged away by his men, stumbling through the side exit into the rainy Chicago night.
Adrian didn't look at the crowd of petrified billionaires watching him. He turned directly to me, his chest heaving slightly, his gray eyes dark with residual adrenaline.
"Are you all right?" he demanded, his voice thick with an intensity that made my knees tremble.
"I'm fine," I whispered, staring at him. "You didn't have to do that."
"He was going to lay hands on you," Adrian snarled quietly, stepping closer until only an inch separated our bodies. "No one touches what belongs to me."
"I told you," I breathed, looking up into his fierce, beautiful face, "I don't belong to anyone."
May you like
Adrian leaned down, his lips hovering mere millimeters from my ear. "Keep telling yourself that, Sophie. But if anyone in this city tries to hurt you, they will have to burn through me first."
***