Chapter 7 - The Gala at the Plaza
The Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel in Manhattan glittered beneath the light of twenty-four Austrian crystal chandeliers. Five hundred of the state’s most influential figures—judges, politicians, Wall Street titans, and high-society philanthropists—milled about the marble floor, sipping vintage champagne and whispering about the seismic shift in the state's underworld hierarchy.
Everyone knew the Moretti family was finished. Sal Moretti had been forced into early retirement in Florida, his shipping leases transferred entirely to the Rossi syndicate, while Bianca had vanished to a private clinic in Switzerland.
The gossip columns had spent three weeks speculating on who would replace Bianca as Dominic Rossi’s companion at the annual Winter Benefit for Children’s Healthcare.
When the double mahogany doors of the ballroom swung open and the master of ceremonies announced the Rossi party, the entire room fell dead silent.
Dominic walked in first, looking devastatingly handsome in a midnight-blue velvet tuxedo jacket and black trousers. Flanking him on his left was Carmela Rossi, resplendent in an emerald-green silk gown, wearing the famous five-strand Rossi pearls around her neck.
And on his right arm, holding her head high, was Skylar Gallagher.
A collective, audible gasp rippled through the ballroom.
Several socialites near the champagne fountain dropped their flutes. Whispers erupted like dry brush catching fire:
"Is that... who is that?" "Look at her size! She must be a size twenty!" "Is that a scar on her face? Good heavens, did you see her cheek?!" "Where is the Moretti girl? Who on earth is that woman?!"
Skylar felt the wave of judgment crash against her like freezing seawater. Every instinct honed by a lifetime of bullying screamed at her to shrink, to hunch her shoulders, to apologize for breathing the same filtered air as these women who looked like starved gazelles in diamond collars.
Then she felt Dominic’s hand cover hers where it rested on his forearm.
He squeezed her fingers firmly, leaning down slightly so only she could hear him. "Look at them, Skylar. They are looking at the woman who holds the pen to fifty million dollars of charity funding tonight. Let them stare."
Carmela reached over, gently adjusting the white gardenia pinned to Skylar’s lapel. "You look like an empress, darling. Walk like one."
Skylar took a deep, steadying breath. She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and took her first step onto the polished parquet floor.
For the next two hours, the room witnessed a masterclass in quiet dominance.
Dominic did not leave her side for a single second. When the Governor approached to offer his congratulations on the port acquisition, Dominic introduced Skylar immediately as the Executive Director of the Rossi Foundation, ensuring that every financial inquiry regarding pediatric hospital grants was directed straight to her.
And Skylar rose to the occasion.
She had spent three weeks memorizing every detail of the foundation’s medical budgets. She spoke with passion, with precision, and with the raw, undeniable authority of someone who knew firsthand what it meant to sit in a drafty hospital corridor wondering if a loved one would survive because of a lack of funds. The cynical, jaded businessmen who initially approached with polite, condescending smiles found themselves listening with genuine respect as this heavy, scarred young woman dismantled their corporate tax-write-off schemes and demanded real, direct funding for rural clinics.
Across the room, standing near the marble columns, two of Bianca Moretti’s former socialite friends watched with sour, twisted expressions.
"It's grotesque," one hissed, adjusting her diamond choker. "A common domestic! Look at the way she takes up half the banquette! Dominic Rossi has lost his mind."
Dominic, who had stepped away to the bar to retrieve two glasses of sparkling cider for his mother and Skylar, paused right behind them.
He didn't raise his voice. He simply leaned down between their bare shoulders, his voice smooth as liquid nitrogen.
"Mrs. Kensington. Miss Bradley."
Both women froze, their blood turning to ice water as they turned to see the mafia boss standing inches away, his dark eyes completely devoid of mercy.
"You have thirty seconds to leave this ballroom," Dominic said quietly. "If I see your faces near Miss Gallagher again, your husbands’ commercial credit lines with my bank will be canceled before the market opens on Monday morning."
May you like
The two women turned ghost-white, clutched their clutches to their chests, and scurried toward the coat check without uttering another sound.
Dominic picked up the two glasses from the silver tray, a cold, satisfied smirk playing across his lips, and walked back to where Skylar was laughing with the Chief of Pediatric Surgery from Mount Sinai.
