Chapter 3 - The Gala at the InfernoThe Inferno club lived up to its name.
Located in a converted subterranean brick warehouse in SoHo, it was Roberto Ferraro’s private playground—a labyrinth of black velvet drapes, glowing red neon, thumping bass, and men in custom-tailored suits discussing things they shouldn't have been discussing anywhere near a microphone.
I stood beside Nicholas at the top of the sweeping steel staircase overlooking the VIP lounge, my hands trembling slightly against the cool silk of my dress.
It wasn't my dress. It was a designer creation delivered to my quarters that afternoon with a note in Nicholas’s sharp, slashing handwriting: Wear this. Don't embarrass me.
It was midnight-blue, halter-necked, hugging my curves in a way that made me feel entirely exposed, paired with diamond-and-sapphire drop earrings that probably cost more than my entire extended family had earned in a decade. My dark hair was swept up into an intricate, elegant chignon, framing my face with a few soft wisps. When I had looked in the mirror, I hadn't recognized the woman staring back.
That wasn't Gabriella Hart, the Queens housekeeper trying to scrape together rent money.
That was a creature born of high society and dark violence.
“Stop fidgeting,” Nicholas murmured, sliding his hand firmly around my bare waist.
His palm was warm, calloused, and burned right through the thin silk against my skin. A jolt of electricity shot up my spine, entirely unwanted and entirely undeniable.
“I feel like a lamb dressed for slaughter,” I whispered back, keeping my eyes fixed on the sea of faces below us.
“Lambs don't wear two-million-dollar earrings,” Nicholas replied smoothly, his lips brushing my ear as he leaned down to guide me toward the steps. “Relax, Gabriella. You’re on my arm. No one here is stupid enough to touch you.”
As we descended the stairs, the ambient noise in the club seemed to dip. Heads turned. Eyes locked onto us—some filled with curiosity, others with undisguised malice.
Word had already traveled through the New York underworld about what had happened at Nicholas’s penthouse dinner. The mysterious housekeeper who had sparked a territorial standoff between two of the city's most powerful men was suddenly walking into Roberto Ferraro’s lion's den on Nicholas’s arm.
Roberto was waiting for us at the base of the stairs, holding a glass of scotch, flanked by two armed guards whose jackets bulged ominously at the ribs.
He looked devastatingly handsome in a white tux jacket, his dark smile stretching wide as he caught sight of us.
“Nicholas!” Roberto purred, spreading his arms wide like we were old college buddies instead of mortal enemies. “And you brought company. I am honored, amico.”
Nicholas didn't smile. His hand tightened imperceptibly on my waist, pulling me fractionally closer against his side, cementing the boundary.
“Roberto,” Nicholas greeted flatly. “I hear congratulations are in order for the Red Hook shipping contract.”
“Paperwork is a bore,” Roberto laughed, his dark eyes sliding off Nicholas and locking directly onto mine with a predatory glint. He stepped closer, lifting my hand before I could pull it away, brushing his lips against the back of my knuckles in a theatrical, European greeting that felt slimy against my skin. “And Miss Hart… Good evening. You look breathtaking. Black aprons never did justice to such elegance.”
My blood ran cold. I tried to pull my hand back, but his grip tightened just enough to trap me.
Before I could speak, Nicholas’s hand moved with blurring speed. He gripped Roberto’s wrist, his fingers clamping down with bone-crushing pressure.
The smile vanished from Roberto’s face instantly. A sharp hiss of pain escaped his teeth as the color drained from his knuckles.
“Don't touch what’s mine, Roberto,” Nicholas said, his voice dropping into a register so chilling, so devoid of humanity, that the bodyguards behind Roberto instantly twitched, their hands hovering over their holsters.
Marco, standing three steps behind us, clicked the safety off his concealed weapon with a sound so quiet only a trained ear could catch it, but loud enough to remind everyone in the vicinity who held the real leverage.
For three seconds, the entire world stopped spinning. The bass thumping through the floorboards felt like a distant heartbeat.
Roberto stared up at Nicholas, a bead of cold sweat forming at his temple. Then, slowly, a tight, venomous smile crept back onto his lips.
“Still so protective over hired help,” Roberto hissed, his voice dropping low enough that only the three of us could hear. “Careful, Nicholas. When a man builds his fortress around a single weak spot… it makes it so much easier for an enemy to burn it to the ground.”
Nicholas’s eyes flared with a lethal, terrifying dark fire. For a terrifying second, I thought he was going to pull a gun right there in the middle of the crowded club and put a bullet through Roberto’s skull.
Instead, Nicholas released Roberto’s wrist with a sharp shove that sent the Italian heir stumbling back half a step.
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“Enjoy your party, Roberto,” Nicholas said smoothly, slipping his arm back around my waist, his touch burning me with possessive fury. “We’re leaving.”
He didn't wait for a reply. He turned me around, guiding me swiftly through the parting crowd toward the exit, leaving the viper in his den behind us.
