Chapter 5 - The Gala Trap
By late October, the tension between the Carter syndicate and the rival Italian faction under Salvatore Russo had reached a boiling point. The streets of Chicago were quiet, but beneath the surface, it was a pressure cooker waiting to blow.
Ethan decided to use it to our advantage.
The annual Autumn Charity Ball at the Field Museum of Natural History was the premier social event of the season. Every high-ranking mob boss, corrupt politician, and billionaire elite in the Midwest would be in attendance beneath the towering skeleton of a Tyrannosaurus rex.
It was the perfect stage for a trap—and the ultimate high-wire act for us.
When Ethan and I descended the grand marble staircase of the mansion that evening, the breath caught in my throat. I wore a backless, midnight-blue velvet evening gown that hugged my curves like liquid silk, encrusted with subtle silver crystals that caught the chandelier light with every step.
Ethan stood at the bottom of the stairs in a tailored midnight-black tuxedo, looking every bit the ruthless monarch of the Chicago underworld. When his eyes landed on me, his breath hitched. The cold, calculating armor he wore every day vanished completely, replaced by a raw, consuming hunger that made my pulse race.
He walked up the steps to meet me, offering his arm. His hand brushed against my bare skin, sending a jolt of electric current straight to my spine.
“You look breathtaking,” he murmured, his voice low and ragged. “Almost too dangerous to take out in public.”
“Good,” I smiled, sliding my hand into the crook of his arm. “Let them look.”
When we arrived at the museum, the flashbulbs of the paparazzi blinded us instantly. Microphones thrust toward us from all directions, shouting questions about stock market acquisitions and charitable foundations.
Ethan’s arm banded tightly around my waist, pulling me flush against his side, projecting an image of untouchable, united power.
Inside the grand hall, beneath the towering dinosaur skeleton, the elite of Chicago mingled over champagne and caviar. But beneath the polite laughter and string quartet music, the air was thick with daggers.
As Ethan stepped away for a moment to speak with the city’s police superintendent regarding a security detail, I stood near a towering marble pillar, sipping a glass of sparkling water.
“Looking stunning as always, Mrs. Carter.”
A smooth, heavily accented voice drifted over my shoulder.
I turned slowly to find Salvatore Russo—the aging, silver-haired head of the Italian syndicate—standing beside me. His dark eyes glittered with predatory amusement, and a thin, cruel smile played across his lips.
My stomach clenched, but my face remained an unreadable mask of cool indifference.
“Mr. Russo,” I said evenly. “I wasn't aware you were invited to a legitimate charity event. Usually, scavengers prefer the dark.”
Russo chuckled softly, stepping closer, invading my personal space just enough to be menacing. “Sharp tongue. Exactly what I’d expect from Marcus Vance’s daughter. Tell me, Mrs. Carter... does your husband warm your bed at night, or is your marriage just another piece of paper to keep the South Side shipping lanes open?”
Before I could deliver the scathing retort forming on my tongue, the temperature around us plummeted instantly.
A heavy, suffocating weight descended upon the space behind Russo. A large, warm hand clamped down onto Salvatore Russo’s shoulder with enough pressure to crush bone.
“Step away from my wife, Salvatore,” Ethan’s voice cut through the ambient ballroom noise like a razor blade slicing through silk. It wasn't loud, but it carried a terrifying, murderous intent that made nearby guests instantly step back in horror.
Russo stiffened, slowly turning his head to look up at Ethan. The older mob boss forced a tight, brittle smile. “Ah, Ethan. Just congratulating you on your lovely bride. She has quite the fire.”
“Keep your eyes off her and your voice away from her,” Ethan said, his gray eyes turning entirely black with suppressed fury, his face carved from granite. “Or the next meeting we have won't be at a charity gala, and I won't be using words.”
Russo held Ethan’s gaze for a tense, agonizing moment before giving a slow, mocking nod, turning on his heel, and disappearing into the crowd.
Ethan didn't let go of my shoulder. He pulled me hard against his chest, his breathing heavy and uneven, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath his tuxedo jacket.
“Are you alright?” he demanded, his voice trembling slightly with residual adrenaline. “Did he touch you?”
I looked up into his face, seeing the raw, unfiltered terror of losing me burning in his eyes. All the lingering doubts, all the hurt from the wedding night, all the walls I had built around my heart finally dissolved into dust.
“I’m fine, Ethan,” I whispered, lifting my hand to rest gently against his stubbled cheek. “He couldn't touch me. Because I know now... I’m not just a piece of your empire. Am I?”
May you like
Ethan covered my hand with his, pressing his palm frantically against his face, closing his eyes as if seeking anchor in a storm.
“You’re my entire world, Jane,” he whispered fiercely against my knuckles, right there in the middle of a crowded ballroom under the gaze of our enemies. “God help me, you always have been.”
