Chapter 57
The marble floors gleam underfoot as we step through the grand entrance of the Goldmoor Club.
The chandeliers overhead drip crystal like icicles, the room filled to capacity with money and ego.
Every guest here is dressed to kill—or at least to conceal a dagger behind a smile.
And I’m already scanning every corner like it’s a chessboard.
Zara’s hand slips into mine, and I glance down to see her calm—outwardly. But I feel the tension in her fingers. She’s coiled tight beneath that maroon silk like she’s waiting for impact. And yet, when she meets a passing gaze, her smile is soft and queenly. Regal. Controlled.
She’s handling it like a goddamn empress.
Lars peels off for a second to greet one of our internal team members posted near the ballroom entrance. I spot Marcus near the side wall. He blends well—dark tux, earpiece discreet. He clocks me and comes our way.
“Main floor is secure,” Marcus says under his breath, keeping his eyes on the room. “We’ve got seven posted inside, fourteen roaming the perimeter. Upstairs is cleared. No press beyond the ropes.”
I nod once. “Let me know the second anything changes. And remember, Lachlan doesn’t leave this building unless it’s in our custody.”
Marcus fades back into the crowd without another word.
Zara and I find our table in the center-right quadrant of the ballroom—close enough to the stage, but positioned for sightlines in every direction.
Violette is already there, swirling her water like it’s gin.
Lars returns a minute later and lowers into his seat beside her, flashing me a quick look that says we’re ready.
A server arrives with a silver tray and sets down flutes of champagne. I grab one, slide it in front of Zara without thinking. It’s habit. Our first night together, I did the same.
But she blinks, falters for half a breath. Then gently nudges the glass back toward me.
“Only water tonight, please,” she says with a soft smile.
I freeze. It’s nothing. Barely a sentence. But my head tilts, my brow lifts. She clocks the change in my expression almost immediately.
“I just want a clear head,” she adds quickly. “Too much going on. I want to be sharp.”
I hold her gaze for a second longer. There’s something behind it. But she’s already turning to say something to Violette, and the moment slips by.
I take a sip of the champagne she refused, eyes tracking the entrance. That’s when Lachlan Kavanagh walks in.
Two men walk beside him—tailored suits, dead eyes, hands twitching too close to where their holsters are tucked.
His salt-and-pepper hair is slicked back like a politician clinging to his last campaign, and that signature smirk is already in place.
But it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s all pretense.
An aging man trying to flex in a room that no longer bends for him.
Zara goes still beside me. Not afraid—controlled. Spine straight. Shoulders squared. Her chin tilts just enough to say she sees him for exactly what he is—a relic.
I cover her hand under the table, she lets my fingers slide over hers.
Kavanagh moves through the crowd like the snake he is—slithering, smiling, exchanging handshakes with men who used to follow him and now just tolerate him. He takes his time, dragging out every step toward us like it’s still his stage.
By the time he stops in front of our table, I’m already standing. Lars rises beside me like a shadow. Violette doesn’t bother moving, just lifts her glass and levels him with a look colder than any bullet.
“Kavanagh,” I say, voice flat.
“Marchetti.” His handshake is all theater. Limp, practiced, insincere. “Stunning venue. Very…modern of you.”
Then his eyes land on Zara. And that’s when the real venom shows.
“You look well, my dear,” he says, his smile curling like spoiled cream. “Marriage has made you softer. I wasn’t sure that was possible.”
Zara says nothing. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away.
He steps closer. Too close. Drops his voice just enough that only I catch it.
“Of course, softness never lasts. Girls like her—untamed whores—get bored fast. It’s in their nature. They outgrow their cages.”
It takes everything I have not to put him on the fucking floor.
My hands flex, jaw locked, vision tunneling. I don’t care that we’re in public. That there are cameras. That there are witnesses. I want his blood on my cuffs. But this isn’t the moment.
Lars shifts forward, calm as ever, placing a palm on my shoulder like a leash snapping tight.
“Good to see you, Kavanagh,” he says smoothly, the threat under the charm razor-sharp. “If you’re here for the art, the east alcove has a lovely piece titled Irrelevance in Oil. Thought it might speak to you.”
Kavanagh chuckles, like he didn’t just get insulted in plain view. “Always a pleasure, gentlemen.”
He turns to go. But not before giving Zara one last lingering look—mocking, dismissive. A mistake.
He disappears into the crowd like a shadow slipping through cracks in the foundation. But the tension doesn’t leave. Not for a second.
I remain standing, my pulse hammering, the urge to follow him burning behind my ribs.
“Let it go,” Lars mutters.
I don’t look at him. “I will,” I say quietly. “After tonight.”
Zara threads her fingers through mine as I sit down. Her grip is firm, her gaze fixed straight ahead. But her skin is warm, her pulse steady. She hasn’t spoken since he approached.
Until now.
“I want to kill him,” she says, soft but clear.
I turn to her. Her eyes meet mine—calm, composed, lethal. And for the first time tonight, I smile.
The hush starts before I even reach the podium.
It begins in the corners, a quiet din thinning into silence as I step up onto the raised platform.
Every footfall echoes faintly off polished marble and the gold-veined grandeur of the ballroom.
The lighting overhead shifts—just enough to spotlight the stage.
Intentional, a cue to every guest that this moment matters.
Eyes turn. Conversations halt. Champagne flutes lower mid-sip.
The Marchetti name carries weight in this city. A threat. A promise. A legacy carved in blood and power. And when I speak into a microphone, the room listens.
I rest one hand on the polished edge of the podium, pausing just long enough to let the silence stretch.
The weight of it settles on the room like a shroud.
Below me, a sea of Chicago’s finest waits—elites draped in designer gowns and custom suits, judges clinking glasses with men who’ve bribed them, politicians nestled beside cartel-adjacent donors in black-tie facades.
The crowd glitters, but I know what’s beneath the shine.
Predators dressed like philanthropists. Corruption cloaked in couture.
And tonight, they’re all here for one reason, to be seen. To be celebrated. To toast the illusion of virtue.
Until we tear it all down.
My gaze sweeps the room—and finds her.
Zara.
Sitting with Violette, who’s already raised her glass in my direction, smug with pride.
Lars is beside her, scowling into his whiskey like it might spare him from the evening’s formality.
But it’s Zara I focus on. Regal in her seat.
Bare shoulders gleaming under soft light.
Her chin lifted, her lips parted just slightly, as if she’s holding her breath for me.
She’s not nervous. She’s ready. My anchor. My match. My queen.
I breathe once then lean into the mic. “Good evening.”
My voice carries, cool and controlled, amplified with a quiet authority. I let the room settle further before continuing.
“On behalf of the Marchetti Foundation, thank you for being here tonight. This evening is about more than designer labels and headline snapshots. It’s about legacy. About responsibility. About giving back to a city that’s given us everything—even when it asked for blood in return.”
A shift ripples through the room at that line. Just enough to make them wonder if they heard me right. I let them wonder.
“Tonight, we gather in celebration,” I continue.
“Of generosity. Of power well-placed. Of what it means to build something that lasts not just in bricks or buildings, but in the lives we touch. Throughout the evening, you’ll have the opportunity to support key initiatives—education access, legal aid, youth programs. Real change.
Right here. In our streets, our schools, our courts. ”
I let my gaze pass over the crowd again—each face a mask, some familiar, some forgettable. Near the bar, one of Kavanagh’s men lingers, eyes sharp. Watching me.
“Of course,” I add with a slight grin, “if you’d rather flex your charity muscles with cold hard cash, there’s a silent auction waiting behind those doors. And I’ve been informed that my mother is already prepared to commit felony assault over a diamond tennis bracelet.”
Laughter rolls across the room, rich and relieved. Violette raises her glass in mock threat. Lars shakes his head.
I give them a beat, then press forward.
“The auction is now open,” I announce, straightening. “Spend freely. Celebrate boldly. And thank you—for standing with us, and for what comes next.”
I step back from the podium as applause breaks out, measured but sincere. A polite cover for the unease creeping in behind it.
The quartet resumes in the corner, soft strings filling the room like fog rolling over water.
I descend the stairs, one hand brushing the rail, eyes finding Zara’s again. I can see the storm forming in her eyes.
Lars joins me at the bottom of the platform. “Sounded almost sincere,” he mutters under his breath.
“It was.” I smile. “Every word.”
Zara rises when I return to the table, and I reach for her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
“You were brilliant, Mr. Marchetti,” she says softly, eyes warm with something deeper than amusement.
“I’m just trying to impress my wife,” I reply, lips brushing her skin again. “The rest of this city can rot for all I care.”
I slip back into my seat beside her, eyes scanning the room again, but my focus narrows to the one thing that matters most. Her.