Chapter 3 - The Gala at the DrakeBy the end of her first week, Emily Carter had accomplished what six previous assistants had failed to do: she had become indispensable to Adrian Vercetti.
She had spent three days inside the glass office, auditing the red ledger line by line. Together, they had mapped out a web of financial embezzlement orchestrated by the Moretti family, revealing that Sal Moretti was planning to use the stolen funds to buy off key officials in the Chicago Port Authority and force Vercetti Logistics out of Terminal 4.
On Friday evening, the snow had stopped, leaving the city locked in a crisp frost.
Inside the penthouse suite at the Drake Hotel on Michigan Avenue, the annual Chicago Maritime Gala was in full swing.
Crystal chandeliers threw shimmering light over three hundred elite guests—politicians, shipping magnates, union bosses, and high-society socialites. A jazz quartet played softly near the grand staircase, while waiters in black tuxedos moved through the crowd carrying trays of vintage champagne.
Near the balcony windows overlooking Lake Michigan stood Adrian Vercetti.
He wore a custom black velvet tuxedo that accentuated his broad shoulders and commanding height. Beside him stood Emily.
She didn't look like the girl who had limped into his office with a broken shoe six days ago.
At 4:00 PM that afternoon, Adrian had dispatched his personal stylist to her small apartment. Emily was now wearing a floor-length emerald green silk gown that hugged her waist and flowed around her heels. Her brown hair was pinned up in an elegant twist, and diamond studs—borrowed from the Vercetti vault—sparkled at her ears.
She still wore her glasses, though the frames had been cleaned and straightened.
“You look comfortable, Miss Carter,” Adrian said quietly, sipping his sparkling water as he surveyed the room.
“I am deeply uncomfortable,” Emily muttered under her breath, holding her champagne glass with both hands. “This dress costs more than my college education. If I spill anything on it, I’ll have to sell an organ.”
A faint smile touched Adrian’s lips. “If you spill anything, I’ll buy the dress.”
“That doesn't make me feel better, Mr. Vercetti. That just makes me feel like a charity case.”
“You are not a charity case,” Adrian said, his voice dropping into that deep, intimate register that sent shivers down her spine. “You saved me three million dollars this week. The dress is an investment in my chief financial auditor.”
Before Emily could reply, a sudden hush fell over the surrounding crowd near the entrance doors.
Sal Moretti stepped into the ballroom.
He was accompanied by his father, Don Carmine Moretti—an elderly, silver-haired man with eyes like polished obsidian, who walked with a gold-headed cane. Behind them stood four heavy guards dressed in dark suits.
Carmine Moretti scanned the room until his eyes landed on Adrian. A thin, predatory smile spread across the old man’s face as he motioned for his son to follow him toward the balcony.
“Adrian,” Carmine said, his voice like gravel scraping over slate. “It’s been too long.”
“Carmine,” Adrian acknowledged, his posture completely still, his eyes cold and distant. “I see you brought Sal. I assumed he was busy managing your dock maintenance accounts.”
Sal’s face flushed dark red, but Carmine held up a gloved hand, silencing his son.
“We heard you hired a new assistant, Adrian,” Carmine said, his yellowed eyes turning to lock onto Emily. He swept his gaze over her green gown, her polished hair, and her simple glasses. “The employment agencies said you were running out of girls. This one looks... surprisingly resilient.”
“Miss Carter is not just resilient, Carmine,” Adrian said smoothly, taking a half-step forward, his broad body subtly positioning itself between Emily and the Morettis. “She’s thorough. In fact, she’s so thorough that she finished our joint Terminal 4 audit two days ahead of schedule.”
Carmine’s smile flickered. His hand tightened around his gold-headed cane.
“Is that so?”
“It is,” Emily said, stepping out from behind Adrian’s shoulder. She looked Carmine straight in the eye, her hands calm, her voice steady. “And Mr. Moretti, if I were you, I would have your chief accountant review your offshore wire transfers from Delaware. There seems to be a major reporting error regarding your federal tax liabilities for the fourth quarter. The IRS receives those automated filings at midnight tonight.”
Sal Moretti gasped, taking a sudden step toward her. “You little—”
Before Sal could finish the sentence, Marcus Hale appeared from the crowd, his hand resting casually inside his tuxedo coat. Two Vercetti security guards stepped up beside him, their expressions stone cold.
“Careful, Sal,” Adrian whispered, his voice dangerously soft. “You’re in public.”
Carmine Moretti stared at Emily for three long seconds. The old man realized in a single moment that the quiet girl standing beside Adrian wasn't a piece of decoration—she was the weapon Adrian had used to gut his financial network.
“This isn't over, Vercetti,” Carmine spat, turning his back and dragging his son away toward the private dining suites.
As the Morettis vanished into the crowd, Emily let out a long breath, her shoulders sagging slightly.
“That was reckless, Miss Carter,” Adrian said quietly. But when she looked up at him, his dark eyes were burning with an intense pride.
“I don't like bullies,” Emily said simply. “Or people who cheat on their tax filings.”
May you like
Adrian looked at her for a long moment. Then, slowly, he offered her his arm.
“Come, Emily,” he said, using her first name for the very first time. “Let’s get some air before the speeches begin.”
