Chapter 8 - The Whispers at the Gala
Seventy-two hours later, the bruised imprint on my neck had faded to a pale yellowish-green, hidden beneath a high-necked, black velvet designer gown.
The Grand Ballroom of the Drake Hotel glittered under the radiance of twelve crystal chandeliers, filled with Chicago’s political elite, corporate moguls, and city officials.
To the social pages of the Chicago Tribune, this was the annual Children’s Memorial Charity Benefit, a gathering of polite philanthropy and expensive champagne.
To those who understood the real hierarchy of the city, however, this ballroom was neutral territory where rival families observed one another like caged predators.
Cole stood at my side, commanding every glance in the room wearing an impeccably tailored three-piece charcoal tuxedo that gave him the aura of an untouchable sovereign.
His left hand rested securely against the small of my back, his touch providing a steadying warmth against the persistent ache in my throat.
Word of the incident at Apex Grappling had already slipped through the porous cracks of the underworld like a dark, intoxicating rumor.
Men who usually spoke with booming confidence lowered their eyes as Cole escorted me through the crowd of well-wishers and sycophants.
They had all heard that the Boss of the North Side had personally stepped onto a public wrestling mat and broken a second-degree black belt with his bare hands for touching his wife.
It was a demonstration of lethal capability that reinforced Cole’s terrifying reputation, but it also revealed something far more dangerous to his enemies: Cole Moretti had an Achilles' heel.
As we stopped near the marble balcony overlooking the ballroom, a short, silver-haired man in an expensive navy dinner jacket approached us with a practiced, predatory smile.
Dominic Rossi, head of the West Side syndicates and Cole’s most calculating rival for municipal port contracts, bowed his head in mock deference.
Cole, my friend, you look exceptionally formidable tonight, Dominic began, his sharp, rodent-like eyes sliding smoothly from Cole’s stone-faced profile down to my covered neck.
And Mrs. Moretti, radiant as always, though you seem unusually quiet this evening, almost as if you have lost your voice.
The air between the three of us grew instantly thin, charged with the lethal static of an impending storm.
Sarah is conserving her voice for conversations that carry substance, Dominic, Cole answered smoothly, not a single muscle in his jaw moving as he stared through the older man.
I hear you have been unusually interested in commercial sports real estate recently, Cole, Dominic prodded, swirling his vintage champagne in a crystal flute.
A little bird told me that Apex Grappling had its lease terminated yesterday, and that a prominent orthopedic family is packing their bags for Florida in a tremendous hurry.
People who forget their station often find the climate of Chicago uncomfortably cold, Dominic, Cole replied, his voice dropping into that chilling, silky cadence.
It is an unfortunate reality of poor judgment, especially when individuals overestimate their ability to survive in deep water.
Dominic’s thin smile tightened at the edges, the veiled threat landing squarely against his ribs with unmistakable clarity.
Of course, Cole, of course, Dominic murmured, raising his glass in an empty toast.
We must all be very protective of our most delicate treasures, after all, a man with something precious to lose is a man who must look over his shoulder twice as often.
Dominic nodded politely, turned on his polished heels, and melted back into the sea of diamond-draped patrons.
My fingers tightened against Cole’s sleeve, my pulse thudding against the tender walls of my bruised throat.
He was testing us, I whispered, keeping my voice low and rasping so only Cole could hear beneath the swelling orchestral music.
He was looking for a crack in your armor, Cole.
Cole turned to face me fully, his hand sliding up from my waist to gently cup the side of my face, his thumb tracing the curve of my cheekbone with fierce tenderness.
Let them look, Sarah, Cole whispered, his eyes blazing with an ancient, unyielding fire.
May you like
They will only find out that the armor is made of iron, and that anyone who reaches for you will pull back a stump.
I looked into his eyes and realized that the public assault at the gym had not just been an isolated act of male ego; it was the spark that was about to ignite a syndicate war across the city.
