Chapter 7 - The Winter Ball
Two months later.
By early December, a heavy blanket of white snow covered the Lake Forest estate, transforming the vast oak trees and stone courtyards into a breathtaking winter landscape.
Inside the main house, the grand hall was filled with the warm glow of firelight, the smell of fresh pine garlands, and the delicate sound of a string quartet playing soft classical music near the grand staircase.
It was the night of the annual Moretti Winter Gala—a legendary charity event that Mara Cross Moretti had hosted every year to raise funds for the Chicago Children’s Hospital.
For five years, Evelyn Vance had run the event from behind closed doors, using inflated catering contracts and fake flower invoices to funnel hundreds of thousands of dollars into her Cayman accounts.
Tonight, the party belonged to me.
I stood near the top of the grand marble staircase, wearing an elegant dark emerald-green velvet gown that touched the floor. My pale hair was styled in a classic chignon, secured with a simple pearl pin.
I looked down at the main ballroom below. Two hundred guests—city officials, prominent business leaders, hospital board members, and old family friends—were mingling near the ice sculptures and the champagne towers.
Everything was running with flawless, silent precision. The waiters moved through the crowd like clockwork, the food trays were hot, the wine was flowing, and the security team commanded by Caleb Stone was invisible yet total.
"You look breathtaking, Clara."
I turned my head.
Rocco Moretti was standing beside me at the top of the stairs. He was wearing a dark black tuxedo with a crisp white shirt and a black silk bow tie. He looked powerful, handsome, and completely at home in the grand hall he owned.
"Thank you, Rocco," I smiled, holding my small evening clutch. "How is the crowd downstairs?"
"Bored with the speeches, but very impressed with the catering," Rocco chuckled quietly, stepping up beside me to look down at the ballroom. "The hospital director just told me this is the most organized gala we've hosted in ten years."
"That’s because every dollar spent tonight is actually going to the hospital," I said dryly.
Rocco smiled, turning his head to look at me. "I never doubted you for a second."
From down the long second-floor corridor, a small, delightful sound broke through the classical music.
"Mama! Look at my dress!"
Lily came skipping down the hallway, escorted by Matteo’s head nurse.
She was wearing a beautiful white tulle dress with a wide green velvet sash that matched my gown, her pale hair curled into tiny ringlets. On her left wrist, the silver charm bracelet Rocco had given her chimed softly with every step she took.
Behind her, the nurse was pushing a sleek, custom-built pram carrying three-month-old Matteo.
Matteo was dressed in a tiny black velvet sleeper, awake and alert, his dark eyes—the exact shade of his father's—staring curiously up at the glittering crystal chandeliers above.
"You look like a little princess, Lily," Rocco said, dropping to one knee as she reached us.
Lily did a tiny, clumsy curtsy, making her tulle skirt fluff out like a white cloud. "Rocco! The baby is awake! Can he see the big tree?"
"He certainly can," Rocco smiled, standing up and reaching into the pram to lift his three-month-old son into his arms.
Matteo let out a small, happy coo, resting his head against Rocco’s dark velvet lapel.
The transformation in Rocco over the past three months had been remarkable. The cold, impenetrable mob boss who had once ruled this house through fear and silence had become a devoted, fiercely protective father who personally read bedtime stories to his son every night at eight o'clock.
Down in the ballroom, a sudden murmur rippled through the crowd near the front entrance.
Caleb Stone stepped away from the main door, pressing his earpiece, and walked quickly up the marble stairs toward us.
"Sir," Caleb whispered, leaning close to Rocco. "We have a situation at the front gate."
Rocco’s posture instantly hardened, the warm smile vanishing from his face. "What kind of situation, Caleb?"
"A courier just dropped off a sealed wooden crate," Caleb reported, his voice low and serious. " Addressed personally to Clara Mercer. No return address, but our bomb-sniffer dogs cleared it ten minutes ago."
I frowned, looking at Rocco. "A crate for me?"
"Where is it?" Rocco asked.
"In the security holding office near the garage," Caleb replied. "Do you want me to have the team open it?"
May you like
Rocco looked at me, then down at his son in his arms.
"No," Rocco said, his voice dropping into that dark, resolute tone that signaled action. "I'll open it myself."
