Chapter 4 - The Gala of Shadows
Three days later—Friday evening.
The Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was transformed into a glittering sea of black-tie tuxedos, diamond necklaces, and champagne flutes for the annual Manhattan Real Estate & Commerce Gala.
Over five hundred of the city’s most influential figures—developers, judges, district attorneys, and high-society socialites—filled the room. Standing near the center of the ballroom, sipping a martini and surrounded by three wealthy investors, was Grant Mercer.
He looked handsome, immaculate, and utterly unbothered. He wore a custom Tom Ford tuxedo, his hair slicked back, laughing at a joke made by a senior judge sitting at his table.
His father, Arthur Mercer, stood beside him, patting his shoulder with paternal pride.
"And young Grant here has just closed his largest consulting retainer with Vanguard," Arthur announced loudly to the circle of investors. "Four hundred thousand in expansion capital secured in less than six months!"
"To Vanguard!" the investors raised their glasses.
Grant smiled, taking a sip of his drink. He had checked his phone twenty times that day. Elena hadn't returned to her apartment. Her phone remained turned off. He assumed she had fled the city in terror, terrified of the threat he had delivered outside Nico’s office door.
Suddenly, the low chatter in the ballroom died down.
The heavy double doors at the entrance of the ballroom opened wide.
Two security guards in crisp black suits stepped aside, making way for a couple entering the room.
A collective gasp swept through the high-society crowd.
Walking arm in arm into the gala were Nico Bellanti and me.
I wore a floor-length, backless gown of deep crimson silk that draped perfectly over my frame. My dark hair was styled in an elegant, sweeping updo, exposing my neck, my shoulders, and my throat.
I hadn't applied heavy makeup to hide the marks.
Instead, a subtle, light foundation left the faint, unmistakable outlines of purple fingerprints clearly visible against my pale skin under the bright chandeliers. Around my neck hung a breathtaking diamond collar necklace provided by Nico—a piece of jewelry worth two million dollars that drew every eye in the room directly to my throat.
Beside me, Nico looked like an emperor. His tailored black tuxedo fitted his broad shoulders impeccably, his dark hair combed back, his posture radiating lethal, aristocratic power.
Grant’s martini glass froze halfway to his lips.
The color drained from his face so fast it looked as though his soul had been sucked out by a sudden vacuum. His eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated shock as he stared at me, then at Nico’s hand resting comfortably at the small of my back.
"Is that... Bellanti?" one of the developers whispered nearby. "And who is that stunning woman with him?"
"That's Elena Vance," another voice replied. "She’s his head financial executive. My God, look at her necklace..."
"Look at her neck," a woman in the second row whispered, her voice carrying across the silent floor. "Are those... bruises?"
Nico walked me smoothly across the polished marble floor, passing right through the crowd of shocked onlookers, heading directly toward the table where Grant and his father stood.
Grant took an involuntary step back, his knuckles turning white as he clutched his glass.
"Grant," Nico’s voice echoed gently across the silent circle. "Arthur. What a pleasant evening."
Arthur Mercer frowned, looking from Nico to me, his sharp eyes immediately catching the visible purple marks on my throat. "Bellanti. I didn't know you were attending tonight. And... Ms. Vance. You look... striking."
"Thank you, Mr. Mercer," I said, my voice cool, smooth, and echoing across the quiet ballroom. "I felt it was important to attend. After all, tonight is a celebration of corporate transparency, isn't it?"
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Grant swallowed hard, his throat working frantically as he tried to construct words that wouldn't come. "Elena... what are you doing here with him?"
"She's here with me, Mercer," Nico said, taking a slow step forward until he stood six inches from Grant’s face. "Because when a thief steals four hundred thousand dollars from my company and lays his hands on my executive, I like to make sure he gets his public recognition."
