Chapter 6 - A Masked Gala
To cement the fragile truce that followed the warehouse shootout, Vittorio organized a grand masked gala at the Drake Hotel. Every major player in the Chicago underworld was required to attend.
Sienna arrived in a stunning, emerald-green silk dress that clung to her curves, a delicate black lace mask covering her eyes. For one evening, she didn't look like a waitress or an assistant; she looked like royalty.
When Dawson entered the ballroom, the crowd parted. He wore a tailored black tuxedo with a matching velvet mask. His eyes locked onto Sienna instantly, ignoring the politicians and mob bosses attempting to greet him.
He walked straight to her and extended his hand. "Dance with me."
As they moved across the floor to a slow, haunting waltz, Dawson’s hand rested firmly on the small of her back.
"You look breathtaking, Sienna," he murmured, his voice low and dangerous.
"You don't look so bad yourself, Moretti," she replied, a genuine smile touching her lips. "No blood on your knuckles tonight."
"The night is still young," he whispered playfully, though his eyes remained intensely focused on her. "I've been thinking about what you said. About not wanting the monsters at your door. I’m trying to change things, Sienna. For you. I'm taking over the legitimate side of the business. My father doesn't know yet."
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Before Sienna could reply, she noticed a man standing by the balcony—Salvatore, Vittorio’s trusted underboss. He was slipping a small, heavy object into his jacket while whispering to a known Russian hitman.
Sienna’s blood ran cold. "Dawson... look at eleven o'clock. Salvatore. He's betraying your father."
