Chapter 5 - The Serpent's Ballroom
The descent down the marble staircase felt like walking toward a firing squad.
Clare felt every single pair of eyes dissecting her.
There were women dripping in haute couture staring with open envy and sharp calculation.
There were men with scarred knuckles and tailored Brioni suits whose gazes flicked from Gabriel’s stony face down to the five-carat diamond on Clare’s finger.
Gabriel moved with the effortless grace of a panther patrolling its territory.
He did not rush.
He matched his pace to Clare’s concealed limp, his heavy arm providing an unshakeable anchor that bore half her body weight without anyone in the room noticing.
"Smile, little bird," Gabriel murmured beneath his breath, his lips barely moving. "You are supposed to be desperately in love with a monster."
Clare forced her lips to curve into a serene, enigmatic smile, just as she had seen socialites do while serving them caviar for minimum wage.
When they reached the polished parquet floor of the ballroom, the crowd parted instantly.
Nobody dared stand in Gabriel Hayes’ direct path.
Standing near the grand ice sculpture was Sullivan, flanked by his two burly sons and three armed lieutenants.
Sullivan’s face was flushed purple with expensive alcohol, his small, piggish eyes narrowing into slits as he took in the sight of Clare.
"Gabriel!" Sullivan bellowed, clapping his meaty hands together in a display of aggressive familiarity. "We thought you’d retired to count your birthday millions in the dark. And who is this lovely creature? You didn't mention bringing a guest from the outside."
Gabriel stopped three paces from the older capo.
The tension in the immediate perimeter spiked so sharply that even the servers stopped moving.
"I don't discuss my private life with business associates, Sullivan," Gabriel said, his voice smooth as crushed velvet and twice as lethal. "Especially those whose shipping manifests have come up short three months in a row."
Sullivan’s smile twitched, a flash of murderous anger darting across his weathered brow before he masked it with a booming laugh.
"Always business with you, Hayes! Even on your thirty-sixth." Sullivan took an encroaching step forward, his eyes dropping to Clare’s neckline. "Aren't you going to introduce us to the lady?"
"This is Clare," Gabriel said, his left hand shifting to rest possessively against the small of Clare’s back.
The heat of his palm seared through the green silk.
"My fiancée," Gabriel added, dropping the word like a live grenade into the center of the gathering.
Gasps rippled through the immediate circle of guests.
Sullivan froze, his glass of Scotch tilting dangerously in his thick hand.
"Fiancée?" Sullivan repeated, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with suspicion. "You've been a bachelor for ten years, Hayes. Ever since the trouble in Chicago. Now you suddenly produce a bride out of thin air on the night we were supposed to discuss uniting our port operations?"
"Timing is everything in our world, isn't it?" Gabriel replied calmly.
Sullivan stepped closer, invading Clare’s personal space.
His breath washed over her, reeking of stale whiskey and unwashed hubris.
"Clare, is it?" Sullivan sneered, his gaze raking over her face. "Funny thing. You look awful familiar, girl. Didn't I see someone with your exact face carrying champagne flutes past the terrace doors two hours ago?"
Clare’s heart slammed violently against her ribs.
The room seemed to shrink, the crystal chandeliers overhead spinning in a blur of gold light.
If Sullivan unmasked her here, Gabriel’s reputation as an untouchable mastermind would shatter into pieces.
And worse—the check in her purse would become worthless, and Mia’s medicine would be cut off before midnight.
Before Clare could speak, Gabriel took half a step forward, placing his broad shoulder between Sullivan and Clare.
The temperature around them plummeted.
"Are you implying that I don't know the woman who sleeps in my bed, Sullivan?" Gabriel asked, his voice deathly soft.
It was not a question.
It was a sentence of execution waiting for an excuse.
Sullivan swallowed hard, realizing he had overstepped the razor-thin boundary of mob etiquette.
"Just an old man's eyes playing tricks, Hayes," Sullivan muttered, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "No offense intended."
"Good," Gabriel said, turning slightly toward Clare. "Because the last man who disrespected my household had his tongue removed and mailed to his widow in a cigar box."
A dead silence fell over the perimeter.
Gabriel looked down at Clare, his hardened features softening with an actor's terrifying precision.
He lifted her right hand to his lips and pressed a warm, lingering kiss against the back of her knuckles.
"The noise is giving Clare a headache," Gabriel announced to the surrounding elites without looking away from her eyes. "Enjoy the rest of the evening. My security will escort anyone remaining off the property by one in the morning."
He turned Clare around with gentle, absolute authority and guided her back toward the grand staircase.
As they ascended the first five marble steps, away from Sullivan’s burning, suspicious glare, Clare felt Gabriel’s arm tighten around her waist.
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"You held your ground," Gabriel whispered near her ear, his voice barely audible over the restarting jazz music.
"I did what I had to do for my sister," Clare replied, her voice trembling slightly under the overwhelming adrenaline crash.
