Everyone watched Victoria raise her hand against a helpless elderly woman, but only one waitress dared to stop her—and seconds later, Chicago’s most powerful billionaire walked straight toward them.

The annual Chicago Heritage Gala at the Palmer House Hilton was the crown jewel of the Midwest's social calendar. It was an event where political power, old money, and corporate titans converged. Under normal circumstances, Vincent Moretti avoided such ostentatious displays.

Tonight, however, absence was not an option.

Arthur’s formal claim to the Moretti board had sent shockwaves through high society. If Vincent hid inside his estate, the vultures would smell blood. He needed to show the world that his grip on Chicago remained absolute.

The grand ballroom was a sea of crystal chandeliers, flowing champagne, and tuxedo-clad elites. When the double doors opened and Vincent Moretti entered, the entire room seemed to hold its collective breath.

Beside him walked Emma Carter.

She wore a midnight-blue silk gown tailored specifically for her by Milan’s finest designers, accentuating her graceful neck and slender waist. Her auburn hair was swept up into an elegant chignon, secured with diamond pins. She did not look like a former waitress from the South Side; she held her head high, her chin lifted with an innate, quiet nobility that outshone every socialite in the room.

Whispers rippled like wildfire through the crowd.

"Is that the waitress from the Sterling banquet?"

"Vincent Moretti brought her as his personal guest?"

"Look at how he holds her..."

Vincent kept a protective hand firmly on the small of Emma’s back. "You look magnificent," he whispered close to her ear, his deep voice sending a shiver through her spine despite the cold tension in the room.

"I feel like I'm walking into a snake pit," Emma murmured back, offering a polite, practiced smile to a passing senator.

"It is a snake pit," Vincent agreed grimly. "Keep your eyes open. Julian has twenty plainclothes agents stationed throughout the ballroom, but Arthur thrives in public spectacles."

As if summoned by the very mention of his name, a sudden hush fell over the eastern side of the ballroom.

A group of foreign dignitaries from the Eastern European consulate parted. Walking right through their center, dressed in a bespoke charcoal tuxedo with a crimson silk pocket square, was Arthur Moretti.

Gasps echoed across the hall. Guests backed away, stunned by the sudden reappearance of a man believed dead for half a decade.

Arthur walked with effortless arrogance, holding a glass of vintage champagne. He smiled broadly, nodding to stunned acquaintances, his silver-streaked hair gleaming beneath the chandeliers.

He walked straight toward Vincent and Emma, stopping just three paces away.