Chapter 2 - The Wrath of Vincent Moretti
The grand ballroom of the Drake Hotel had never fallen into such profound, suffocating silence. A second earlier, crystal chandeliers had glittered over laughter, clinking champagne flutes, and the quiet arrogance of Chicago’s highest social echelon. Now, every single eye was fixed on the center of the floor, where Vincent Moretti stood like a storm cloud gathering over an open plain.
Victoria Sterling felt the breath seize in her throat. Her hand, still suspended in the air where Emma had released it, began to tremble uncontrollably. Her face, usually powdered to immaculate porcelain perfection, had drained of every drop of color.
"M-Mr. Moretti..." Victoria stammered, taking an involuntary half-step backward. Her high heel caught slightly on the hem of her designer gown, nearly throwing her off balance. "I didn't... there's been an enormous misunderstanding. She didn't have an invitation badge, and she spilled water near my dress. I was merely... I was only trying to protect the decorum of your gala—"
"Decorum?" Vincent’s voice was neither loud nor rushed, yet it cut through the immense room with the weight of an iron blade. He did not blink. His eyes, a chilling shade of slate gray, pinned Victoria where she stood. "You raised your hand against my mother. In my house. At my foundation's event."
"I didn't know!" Victoria’s voice cracked into a desperate shriek, losing every shred of the poised debutante persona she had spent years cultivating. "She was dressed in plain cotton! She looked like a vagrant who wandered in from Michigan Avenue! How could anyone possibly know she was the matriarch of Moretti Enterprises?!"
Isabella Moretti gave a gentle, tired sigh from her wheelchair. She patted Vincent’s sleeve, but Vincent did not soften his gaze.
"You did not know who she was," Vincent said coldly. "Which means that if she had been anyone else—a grandmother with no name, a stranger with no wealth, an ordinary human being who could not defend herself—you would have struck her across the face without a second thought."
Victoria swallowed hard, her chest heaving. She looked around desperately for her peers, for the influential socialites she had been drinking cocktails with only ten minutes prior. But every single one of them had stepped back, averting their eyes as if standing within ten feet of Victoria Sterling might taint them with financial ruin.
"Julian," Vincent said without turning his head.
His chief of security, a towering man in a sharp charcoal suit who had materialized behind him, stepped forward instantly. "Yes, Mr. Moretti."
"Escort Miss Sterling off the premises immediately," Vincent commanded, his tone devoid of any emotion. "Inform the Sterling Group that effective tonight, every joint venture, supply contract, and bank underwriting agreement with Moretti Enterprises is indefinitely terminated."
A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers. The Sterling family’s multi-million-dollar empire depended almost entirely on Moretti logistics and shipping routes. Canceling those contracts was not merely an embarrassment; it was an economic death sentence.
"No! Vincent, please!" Victoria cried out, tears of genuine panic now streaking through her mascara. "My father... my father will ruin me! You can't do this over an accident!"
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Julian did not give her the chance to say another word. With firm, disciplined precision, two security officers flanked Victoria and gripped her elbows, marching her toward the exit doors while she sobbed and struggled in humiliation.
When the heavy oak doors clicked shut behind her, the ballroom remained in petrified silence. Vincent took a slow breath, turned his attention away from the exit, and looked toward the corner where Emma Carter stood alone.
