Chapter 5 - The War at the Plaza
The Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was a shimmering den of wolves clad in expensive tuxedos and diamond gowns.
High-society elites, corrupt politicians, and dangerous crime bosses mingled under towering crystal chandeliers while classical string music played softly in the background.
When Michael walked through the heavy gilded doors with me on his arm, the ballroom went entirely dead silent.
I held my head high, the emerald dress draping over my frame like liquid silk, the silver locket resting against my collarbone. Michael walked with the effortless, lethal grace of a predator, his broad frame radiating absolute dominance.
At the far end of the room stood Viktor Volkov—a massive, scarred Russian man in his fifties surrounded by six armed enforcers.
"Michael," Volkov sneered in a thick accent, holding up a glass of vodka. "You dare step into my house after taking what belongs to my business?"
"You're standing on my land, Viktor," Michael replied smoothly, his voice carrying clearly across the silent room. "And you are speaking to my future wife."
Gasps echoed through the crowd.
I flinched slightly, looking up at Michael in shock. Future wife?
Volkov’s eyes narrowed into angry slits as he looked at me, realizing his bluff about the ledger had completely failed. "She is Arthur Vance's daughter! That ledger belongs to the Bratva!"
"That ledger belongs to the fire," Michael corrected coldly.
With a smooth motion, Michael pulled a small black drive from his pocket—the decrypted data from my locket—and dropped it into a silver ice bucket filled with acid that Dante carried beside him. The drive sizzled and dissolved into nothingness within seconds.
"The names, the accounts, the evidence—all gone," Michael announced, looking around the room at the gathered crime bosses. "The secrets die tonight. No more blackmail. No more extortion. The East Coast remains under Moretti rule."
Volkov roared in blind fury, reaching into his jacket for a weapon—
CRACK!
Before Volkov could draw his gun, Dante and three Moretti guards moved with terrifying precision, disarming Volkov's men and slamming the Russian boss face-down onto the marble floor within two seconds flat.
The surrounding elites backed away in horror, but Michael didn't even blink. He adjusted his silk cuffs, stepping over Volkov’s pinned body without looking down.
"Take him away," Michael ordered casually. "Tell his lieutenants that Brighton Beach has a new commander."
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Michael turned to me, offering his arm. His eyes were soft, warm, and entirely focused on me despite the chaos around us.
"Shall we go home, Miss Vance?" Michael whispered gently. "Our son is waiting up for us."
