Chapter 3 - The Eve of the Gala
By five o'clock the following evening, the Harbor Light Hotel in downtown Manhattan was bustling with activity.
The annual Hale Syndicate Gala was the premier event of the New York underworld—a grand velvet-and-crystal masquerade where rival bosses, corrupt city officials, union leaders, and high-society donors gathered under the guise of a charity evening for the Harbor Children's Hospital.
In the master suite on the top floor of the Long Island estate, Claire stood before a full-length mirror.
Dominic had sent his personal stylist to prepare her for the evening, ensuring she looked every bit the elevated household manager of the estate. She wore a simple yet elegant emerald-green silk dress that draped gracefully to her ankles, her auburn hair pinned back in a soft, timeless twist.
A soft knock sounded on the open door frame.
Dominic stood there, dressed in a flawless black tuxedo with a dark green silk bow tie that subtly matched her dress. He looked imposing, powerful, and dangerously handsome.
"You look stunning, Claire," Dominic said, walking into the room.
"I feel like an imposter," Claire admitted, touching the emerald pendant around her neck—a piece Dominic had instructed his jeweler to deliver to her room an hour ago. "I'm a baker from Queens, Dominic. Not a mobster's guest."
"You are the woman who saved my son," Dominic said, stopping behind her and meeting her eyes in the mirror. "And in this house, that makes you more important than any mobster or politician."
He reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a sleek, silver smartphone, handing it to her.
"This phone is connected to a closed-circuit, military-grade satellite feed," Dominic explained. "It gives you direct access to my personal earpiece, Victor's comms, and the panic-room locks in the nursery. If anything feels wrong—anything at all—press the red button on the side, and Victor will initiate a total lockdown of the compound."
Claire took the phone, tucking it securely into the small green clutch bag resting on her dresser. "Be careful at the hotel, Dominic. Marcus and Carmine Moretti aren't stupid."
"Neither am I," Dominic replied coolly.
He stepped closer, turning her around to face him. He looked down at her for a long moment, his hands coming to rest on her waist. The tension between them, built over weeks of late-night infant feedings, shared quiet meals, and mutual grief, hung heavily in the air.
"When this night is over," Dominic said softly, his voice low and rich, "and my son is finally safe... I want to talk to you about the future, Claire. Not about your salary, or your job as Eli’s nurse. About us."
Claire felt her heart leap into her throat. She looked into his steady blue eyes, seeing no trace of the terrifying crime boss—only the man who had cried in her bakery kitchen, the man who cared for his people, the man who had slowly carved a place inside her guarded heart.
"Focus on staying alive tonight, Dominic," Claire whispered, raising her hand to rest against his lapel. "We'll talk about the future tomorrow morning."
Dominic smiled—a rare, brilliant smile that transformed his sharp face—and bent down, pressing a lingering, warm kiss against her forehead.
"Keep my boy safe," he murmured.
"Always," Claire promised.
Ten minutes later, Dominic’s motorcade of four black armored Suburbans pulled out of the estate gates, their red and blue secondary lights flashing softly against the wet pavement as they sped toward Manhattan.
Claire stood at the grand second-floor window, watching the red taillights vanish into the fog.
Behind her, footsteps echoed down the polished marble corridor.
Julianna Moretti stood in the doorway. She was dressed in an extravagant red sequined gown for the gala, a glass of champagne held loosely between her manicured fingers. Her blonde hair was styled in sharp waves, and her cold green eyes swept over Claire with open contempt.
"Leaving so soon, Dominic?" Julianna purred, leaning against the doorframe. She looked at Claire, her lips twisting into a sneer. "Look at you, playing dress-up in my dead sister's house. Do you really think holding a baby makes you the lady of the manor, baker girl?"
Claire turned around slowly, her face perfectly composed, her hands resting calmly over her clutch bag.
"I don't care about the manor, Julianna," Claire said, her voice cool and steady. "I only care about Eli. Which is more than I can say for some of his relatives."
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Julianna’s eyes narrowed dangerously, her fingers tightening around her champagne glass until the crystal creaked.
"Enjoy your evening upstairs, Claire," Julianna spat, turning on her high heels. "It’s going to be a very long night."
