I follow Byron's gaze to where Zoe stands with my sister, their heads close together in conversation.
Movement at the edge of the crowd catches my attention. Noah Rivera leans against a pillar near the string quartet, arms crossed over his chest. My most effective enforcer looks completely out of place in his tailored suit, dark eyes focused like a predator's on something across the room.
I follow his line of sight to the violinist. She stands slightly apart from the other musicians, eyes closed as her bow glides across the strings. Even from here, I can see the passion in her movements as she plays a contemporary piece with classical undertones—something I vaguely recognize but can't name.
"Interesting choice of entertainment," Alessio murmurs beside me.
I nod, excusing myself from Byron with a curt "We'll speak later" before making my way toward Noah.
"If you stare any harder, you might burn a hole through her," I say, stopping beside him.
He shifts his weight, still watching her. "Who is she?"
"Evelyn Anderson. She's performed at Carnegie Hall. I liked her music and hired her and her team for the day."
Noah nods, the muscle in his jaw twitching. Something about this woman has him on edge, which is unusual for a man who typically shows about as much emotion as concrete.
"You know her?" I ask.
"No."
"Really? Because you're looking at her like you either want to kill her or fuck her."
Noah finally tears his gaze away from the violinist to look at me, his expression unreadable. "Just admiring the music."
I snort. "Bullshit."
I leave Noah to his strange fixation and move through the reception hall. Fucking waste of time, these society obligations. But necessary.
Senator Mitchell catches my eye from across the room. His practiced politician smile freezes when I nod in acknowledgment. He doesn't approach—smart man. Instead, he raises his champagne glass slightly before turning to engage with the banking executive beside him.
"Don Feretti," a voice calls, and I turn to find Judge Harriman extending his hand. "Congratulations on your nuptials."
I clasp his hand firmly. The man who's dismissed three cases against my lower-level operations in the pastyear looks uncomfortable in my presence despite our mutually beneficial arrangement.
"Judge. Glad you could make it."
"Beautiful ceremony," he says, shifting his weight. "Your bride is lovely."
"Yes, she is." I scan the room, locating Zoe still charming my family members. "If you'll excuse me."
Police Commissioner Davis blocks my path next, his handshake overly firm—compensating for something.
"Feretti. Quite the affair you've put together."
"Commissioner." I match his grip, adding just enough pressure to remind him who he's dealing with. "Enjoying the champagne?"
"Yes, very fine." His eyes dart around nervously. "Listen, about that situation in Brooklyn?—"
"Not today," I interrupt, my voice low. "This is a celebration. Business can wait until Monday."
He nods quickly, relief washing over his flushed face. "Of course, of course. Congratulations again."
I continue making rounds, shaking hands with men who would rather see me behind bars but who smile and offer congratulations anyway. Men who take my money under the table while publicly denouncing the very existence of organized crime. Hypocrites, all of them.
Mayor Wilson approaches next, flanked by his security detail who hover at a respectful distance.
"Damiano," he greets me warmly, as though we're old friends. The fucking audacity. "What a spectacular wedding. The city's finest turned out for you today."
