Chương 5 - A Seat at the High Table
By four o'clock that afternoon, the Moretti compound had transformed into a war room.
Men in tactical gear patrolled the perimeter with Belgian Malinois attack dogs. Surveillance feeds from the Port of Chicago and the Loop were projected onto the high limestone walls of Gabriel's private library. Phones were ringing off the hook, answered only with cryptic, coded acknowledgments.
Yet, amidst the preparation for war, a black velvet dress bag arrived from a high-end boutique on Michigan Avenue, escorted by two armed guards.
Inside was a floor-length gown of midnight-blue silk, cut with an open back and a high, regal neckline that looked like armor disguised as elegance.
“What is this?” I asked Gabriel, finding him in his study, where he was reviewing shipping manifests with a glass of neat Scotch resting beside his elbow.
“The Chicago Symphony Orchestra’s Annual Benefactors Gala,” Gabriel said without looking up from the documents. “Eight o’clock tonight at the Palmer House Hilton.”
I stared at him, bewildered. “A gala? Your brother is locked in your cellar, the Russo mob is planning an assault, and you want to go listen to Beethoven?”
Gabriel finally set his pen down and raised his eyes. The weariness on his face was etched deep, but beneath it burned an icy, tactical intellect.
“Senator Callahan is the keynote speaker tonight,” Gabriel explained calmly. “He expects Luke to attend with Isabella Callahan on his arm to announce their engagement to the high-society press. He believes I am trapped here, crippled, nursing my wounds, oblivious to the fact that his private contractors are staging an ambush at my southern warehouses.”
He reached for his glass, taking a slow sip.
“We are going to show them that the master of this house is very much alive. And we are going to introduce my wife to the city.”
A cold shiver rippled down my spine. “You’re using me as a shield.”
“No,” Gabriel said, his voice dropping into that deep, immovable register. “I am giving you a sword. Callahan thinks you are a naive pawn who cries into her pillow. Isabella Callahan thinks she has won the war before the first shot is fired. Tonight, Claire, you walk into that ballroom with your head held high, wearing my ring, and you show them that the Moretti family does not break.”
He stood up, using his cane to steady himself, and walked across the Persian rug until he was standing directly in front of me. He reached out, his callused fingertips lightly brushing against the side of my neck—a touch so gentle, so reverent, that my breath hitched in my throat.
“Do you trust me?” he whispered.
I looked into those volcanic gray eyes. There was darkness there, yes, but there was no deceit. Gabriel Moretti was a monster to the world, but in his own brutal, uncompromising way, he was the only man who had never lied to me.
“I trust you,” I whispered back.
***
The Grand Ballroom of the Palmer House Hilton was a glittering sea of diamonds, champagne flutes, and corrupt power.
Flashbulbs popped like miniature supernovas as Gabriel and I stepped through the arched entrance. Security guards tensed. Conversations died mid-sentence. The string quartet playing in the balcony missed a beat.
Gabriel walked with his cane, but there was no weakness in his stride; it was the measured, rhythmic advance of a king returning to claim a contested throne. His black tuxedo was immaculate, his silver-threaded hair combed back sharply.
And on his arm, I walked in the midnight-blue gown, my spine straight as an arrow, my emerald-cut diamond ring catching the glare of the crystal chandeliers.
Across the room, standing beneath an opulent floral archway, was Senator Patrick Callahan.
He was a man of sixty, with teeth too white, hair too silver, and eyes that held the soulless hunger of a predator in an expensive suit. Beside him stood his daughter, Isabella—tall, striking, dressed in a daring emerald-green gown, holding a champagne flute with the languid confidence of a woman who believed the world was her personal playground.
Senator Callahan’s smile froze the instant his eyes locked onto Gabriel. His glass paused halfway to his mouth.
Isabella turned, her gaze raking over me from head to toe, her lips curling into a sneer that didn't quite hide the sudden flicker of panic in her eyes.
*Where is Luke?*
The question hung in the air between us, unvoiced, but deafening.
Gabriel guided me through the crowd of parting elites directly toward the Senator. Every pair of eyes in Chicago high society followed our advance.
“Senator Callahan,” Gabriel greeted, his voice smooth as silk and cold as grave dirt. “What a magnificent evening for the arts.”
Callahan forced a booming, politician’s laugh that sounded hollow even to his own ears. “Gabriel! Good god, son, we didn't expect you tonight. We heard... rumors you were unwell after the wedding yesterday.”
“Rumors are notoriously unreliable in Chicago, Senator,” Gabriel replied, his hand resting casually on the head of his cane. “I am in excellent health. Allow me to formally introduce my wife, Claire Moretti. Claire, this is Senator Patrick Callahan, and his daughter, Isabella.”
Callahan swallowed hard, offering a clammy hand. “A pleasure, Mrs. Moretti. A stunning bride.”
“Thank you, Senator,” I said, looking him dead in the eye with a cold, serene smile. “It’s remarkable how quickly one adapts to the responsibilities of a real family. Don’t you agree, Miss Callahan?”
Isabella’s knuckles whitened around her champagne glass. “Indeed. Though one wonders how long certain arrangements last in these volatile times.”
“Longer than you think,” I replied smoothly. “Some foundations are built on rock. Others are built on forged ledgers.”
Callahan flinched as if struck across the face.
Before the Senator could formulate a response, Gabriel leaned in slightly, his voice dropping into a deadly whisper that only the four of us could hear.
“Luke won’t be joining you tonight, Patrick,” Gabriel murmured. “He had an unfortunate accident on the docks. He’s resting comfortably in my cellar. And Marco is currently delivering copies of the Callahan-Russo agreement to the Chief of the FBI’s Organized Crime Division.”
Callahan’s face turned the color of damp chalk. “Gabriel, you don’t know what you’re doing. You’re starting a war you can’t win.”
“I’m not starting a war, Patrick,” Gabriel said, turning me gracefully away from them. “I’m finishing the one you started three years ago.”
As we stepped back into the crowd, Isabella Callahan moved quickly, brushing past my shoulder under the guise of grabbing a drink from a passing waiter.
Her lips grazed my ear for a single, terrifying second.
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“Get out while you can, you stupid girl,” Isabella hissed in a desperate, trembling whisper. “Luke isn't working for my father. He’s working for Dimitri Russo. They have fifty men encircling Gabriel’s estate right now. You just walked into a grave.”
***
