Lars shifts forward, calm as ever, placing a palm on my shoulder like a leash snapping tight.
“Good to see you, Kavanagh,” he says smoothly, the threat under the charm razor-sharp. “If you’re here for the art, the east alcove has a lovely piece titledIrrelevance in Oil.Thought it might speak to you.”
Kavanagh chuckles, like he didn’t just get insulted in plain view. “Always a pleasure, gentlemen.”
He turns to go. But not before giving Zara one last lingering look—mocking, dismissive. A mistake.
He disappears into the crowd like a shadow slipping throughcracks in the foundation. But the tension doesn’t leave. Not for a second.
I remain standing, my pulse hammering, the urge to follow him burning behind my ribs.
“Let it go,” Lars mutters.
I don’t look at him. “I will,” I say quietly. “After tonight.”
Zara threads her fingers through mine as I sit down. Her grip is firm, her gaze fixed straight ahead. But her skin is warm, her pulse steady. She hasn’t spoken since he approached.
Until now.
“I want to kill him,” she says, soft but clear.
I turn to her. Her eyes meet mine—calm, composed, lethal. And for the first time tonight, I smile.
The hush startsbefore I even reach the podium.
It begins in the corners, a quiet din thinning into silence as I step up onto the raised platform. Every footfall echoes faintly off polished marble and the gold-veined grandeur of the ballroom. The lighting overhead shifts—just enough to spotlight the stage. Intentional, a cue to every guest that this moment matters.
Eyes turn. Conversations halt. Champagne flutes lower mid-sip.
The Marchetti name carries weight in this city. A threat. A promise. A legacy carved in blood and power. And when I speak into a microphone, the room listens.
I rest one hand on the polished edge of the podium, pausing just long enough to let the silence stretch. The weight of it settles on the room like a shroud. Below me, a sea of Chicago’s finest waits—elites draped in designer gowns and custom suits, judges clinking glasses with men who’ve bribed them, politicians nestled beside cartel-adjacent donors in black-tie facades. The crowd glitters, but I know what’s beneath the shine.
Predators dressed like philanthropists. Corruption cloaked in couture.
And tonight, they’re all here for one reason, to be seen. To be celebrated. To toast the illusion of virtue.
Until we tear it all down.
My gaze sweeps the room—and finds her.
Zara.
Sitting with Violette, who’s already raised her glass in my direction, smug with pride. Lars is beside her, scowling into his whiskey like it might spare him from the evening’s formality. But it’s Zara I focus on. Regal in her seat. Bare shoulders gleaming under soft light. Her chin lifted, her lips parted just slightly, as if she’s holding her breath for me.
She’s not nervous. She’s ready. My anchor. My match. My queen.
I breathe once then lean into the mic. “Good evening.”
My voice carries, cool and controlled, amplified with a quiet authority. I let the room settle further before continuing.
“On behalf of the Marchetti Foundation, thank you for being here tonight. This evening is about more than designer labels and headline snapshots. It’s about legacy. About responsibility. About giving back to a city that’s given us everything—even when it asked for blood in return.”
A shift ripples through the room at that line. Just enough to make them wonder if they heard me right. I let them wonder.
“Tonight, we gather in celebration,” I continue. “Of generosity. Of power well-placed. Of what it means to build something that lasts not just in bricks or buildings, but in the lives we touch. Throughout the evening, you’ll have the opportunity to support key initiatives—education access, legal aid, youth programs. Real change. Right here. In our streets, our schools, our courts.”
I let my gaze pass over the crowd again—each face a mask, some familiar, some forgettable. Near the bar, one of Kavanagh’s men lingers, eyes sharp. Watching me.
