Chapter 9 - The Plaza Protocol
By 8:30 PM, Fifth Avenue in Manhattan was gridlocked with yellow taxis, black town cars, and rain.
Outside the historic Plaza Hotel, red carpets stretched beneath a massive silk canopy. Paparazzi flashes flickered against the wet pavement as high-society elites, city politicians, and undercover federal agents walked through the golden doors for the annual Moretti Foundation Charity Gala.
Behind the scenes, inside a private penthouse suite on the ninth floor of the hotel, Damian stood before a floor-to-ceiling mirror, adjusting his black bowtie.
He looked completely unharmed by the shootout five hours earlier. His tuxedo was tailored to perfection, hiding the bulletproof vest beneath his crisp white shirt and the short-barreled pistol tucked into his spine holster.
A soft knock sounded on the bedroom door.
Elena stepped inside.
Damian turned—and stopped breathing.
She was wearing a dark emerald-green silk evening gown Marco’s team had brought to the safehouse. The dress clung to her waist, falling to the floor in sleek, elegant folds. Her dark brown hair was swept up into a classic knot, exposing the graceful curve of her neck. She wore no jewelry except for a simple pair of silver earrings.
She didn't look like a waitress from Brooklyn anymore. She looked like a queen standing beside a king.
Behind her, Sofia was sitting on the plush velvet sofa, wearing a small white dress, holding a stuffed bear, completely calm now that she was near her mother.
"Sofia is staying here with Marco and four of our best men," Elena said, her voice steady, carrying a quiet, lethal confidence Damian hadn't seen before. "The suite is locked down. Nobody gets up that elevator without Marco's eye print."
Damian walked up to her, his hazel eyes dark with an emotion he couldn't quite name. "You don't have to go down there, Elena. You can stay here with her."
Elena looked up at him, her chin held high. "Salvatore ruined my life. He turned my mother into a traitor, he made me mourn an empty grave, and he tried to kill my child tonight. I’m not sitting in a hotel room while you fight him alone."
Damian studied her face for three quiet seconds, a small, dark smirk touching his lips.
"You're braver than half the bosses on the Commission, Elena Moretti," he whispered.
"I'm a mother, Damian," she replied simply. "There's nothing braver than that."
Damian offered his arm. Elena took it, slipping her hand through the crook of his elbow.
"The flash drive is linked to the hotel’s primary media server," Damian instructed her as they walked toward the private elevator. "Luke is inside the control room. The moment we step onto the ballroom floor, he overrides the screens."
"What if Salvatore’s men draw their weapons immediately?" she asked.
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"They won't," Damian said coldly as the elevator doors slid shut. "Not in front of the Mayor, the Police Commissioner, and forty news cameras. Salvatore is a creature of vanity. He will try to play the gracious host until the trap springs."
The elevator descended smoothly toward the Grand Ballroom.
