Chapter 5 - The Gala of WolvesTwo weeks later, the grand ballroom of the Vance-Moretti grand hotel downtown was transformed into a glittering war zone disguised as a high-society charity gala.
Every powerful figure, crooked politician, and syndicate boss from across the eastern seaboard had gathered under the cascading crystal chandeliers. They wore tuxedos and designer gowns, sipping champagne while trading silent, lethal threats beneath polite smiles.
And right at the center of it all stood Damian Vance—with Harper clinging to his arm.
Harper wore a stunning, backless crimson silk gown that clung to her curves like liquid fire, her dark hair swept up in an elegant chignon, and the heavy emerald engagement ring catching every beam of light in the room. She looked every inch the untouchable mafia queen.
Inside, however, she felt like she was standing on a tightrope over a pit of vipers.
“Relax,” Damian murmured near her ear, his hand resting securely against the small of her back, his thumb tracing soothing circles against her spine through the silk. “You’re gripping my arm so hard you’re cutting off my circulation.”
“I am going to throw up on your thousand-dollar Italian loafers,” Harper whispered back through a fixed, dazzling smile that was meant to look adoring to the surrounding crowd.
“You look breathtaking,” Damian replied softly, his dark eyes softening as he glanced down at her. “And nobody here dares look at you twice.”
He wasn't lying. As they moved through the ballroom, powerful men who ruled shipping ports and drug routes bowed their heads respectfully as Damian passed, their eyes darting nervously toward Harper before quickly looking away. The message was clear: she was off-limits. She was a Vance.
Then, the sea of faces parted, and a man stepped directly into their path.
He was older, impeccably dressed in a white tuxedo jacket, with silver-streaked hair and cold, calculating blue eyes that carried a predatory glint. Behind him stood two massive bodyguards.
Victor Moretti—the head of the rival Moretti syndicate, and Damian’s most bitter, ruthless enemy.
“Damian,” Moretti purred, his voice smooth as tainted honey. He stopped a few feet away, raising his champagne glass in a mock toast. “I hear congratulations are in order. Rumor has it our cold-blooded king finally found himself a queen.”
Damian’s body went completely rigid beside her. The air in the immediate vicinity dropped twenty degrees, turning to pure ice.
“Victor,” Damian greeted, his voice a low, lethal growl. “Enjoying the party?”
Moretti’s blue eyes slid slowly off Damian and landed on Harper. He looked her up and down with a slow, insolent appraisal that made her skin crawl.
“Ah, the little florist from 4th Street,” Moretti smiled thinly. “A brave girl. Or a very foolish one. Tell me, Mrs. Vance... does your husband keep you in a cage of gold, or does he let you outside to smell the roses before he buries them?”
Harper’s jaw tightened. Before she could open her mouth to deliver a blistering, ice-cold retort that would have embarrassed the syndicate boss in front of his peers, Damian moved.
In a fraction of a second, Damian stepped forward, inserting his broad frame directly between Moretti and Harper, blocking the rival boss from view entirely.
“Watch your tongue, Victor,” Damian whispered, his voice carrying across the silent ballroom with the devastating weight of a death sentence. “Mention my wife’s name again, and I won't just ruin your shipping lines. I’ll dismantle your entire family tree down to the roots.”
Moretti’s smile faltered for a microsecond. A bead of cold sweat broke out along his temple, but he forced a tight, brittle chuckle, raised his glass, and backed away into the crowd.
Damian didn't relax. He turned back to Harper, his dark eyes burning with an intense, fiery protectiveness.
“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice losing its harsh edge, replaced by an urgent, raw concern.
Harper looked up at the mafia king who had upended her entire world—the man who had bought her a ring, built a fortress around her, and threatened a syndicate war over a single insult. The fear she had felt in the alley was gone, replaced by a strange, overwhelming realization.
She wasn't his prisoner anymore. She was his partner.
“I’m fine,” Harper whispered, a genuine, radiant smile breaking across her face. She reached up, her hand resting against his cheek, mirroring the gesture he had made to her weeks ago. “In fact... I think I’m getting the hang of this mob wife thing.”
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Damian’s dark eyes flared, a rare, breathtaking smile breaking through his stern facade. He caught her hand, kissing her knuckles right there in the center of the ballroom, surrounded by wolves and enemies.
“Good,” Damian murmured against her skin. “Because we’re only just getting started.”
