Chapter 3 - The Gala
Three weeks later, the transition from maid to residential manager felt less like a job promotion and more like walking a tightrope over a pit of fire.
I had spent twenty-one days learning the inner workings of the Rossi estate. I reorganized the staff shifts, fired a security guard who was taking bribes from paparazzi, and installed a direct shipment of medical supplies for the house inventory.
My life at home had changed overnight. Mia and I had moved into a clean, sunlit two-bedroom apartment near Lincoln Park. She had her own bed, a brand-new pink desk, and a continuous glucose monitor attached to her arm that synced directly to my phone. For the first time in three years, I slept through the night without waking up in a cold sweat.
But the peace was short-lived.
On a freezing Thursday evening, Zo stood in the foyer of the estate, adjusting his cufflinks. He was dressed in a bespoke black tuxedo that made him look impossibly broad and intimidating.
"The winter charity gala at the Drake Hotel," Zo said as I double-checked his schedule on my tablet. "The entire Chicago Commission will be there. Including Sal Moretti."
I looked up from the screen. Sal Moretti was the head of the rival family controlling the West Side docks. For months, tensions between the Rossi syndicate and the Moretti crew had been simmering over shipping rights.
"Your security detail is set," I replied, reading off the screen. "Marcus and four men in the primary vehicle. Two trailing SUVs. You enter through the service elevator at nine-fifteen."
Zo nodded slowly, but his eyes were fixed on me. "You’re coming with me."
I paused, my finger hovering over the glass screen. "Excuse me?"
"Moretti’s financial director will be there," Zo explained, pulling a velvet box from his coat pocket and setting it on the table beside me. "I need someone who can scan financial records without looking like an enforcer. You have an eye for detail, Tessa. Put on the dress inside that box."
I opened the velvet box. Inside lay a breathtaking floor-length gown of deep emerald silk, simple, elegant, and unmistakably expensive. Beside it rested a pair of subtle diamond stud earrings.
"Mr. Rossi, I’m your manager, not your date," I said cautiously.
"You’re my assistant for the evening," Zo corrected, his eyes softening slightly. "And as long as you're by my side, no one in that room will dare lay a finger on you. Wear the dress, Tessa."
An hour later, I was stepping out of a black town car into the flashing lights outside the Drake Hotel. The cold wind off Lake Michigan whipped my dark hair around my face, but the silk gown clung to me like a second skin.
Zo offered his arm. I hesitated for a fraction of a second before placing my gloved hand over his dark wool sleeve. His arm felt like solid iron beneath the fabric.
"Breathe," he murmured as we entered the grand ballroom. "They’re just wolves in expensive suits. You’ve handled worse on the South Side."
The ballroom was a sea of crystal chandeliers, champagne flutes, and velvet draping. Chicago’s high society—politicians, judges, real estate tycoons, and syndicate bosses—mingled under the watchful eyes of plainclothes security.
As we moved through the room, whispers followed us like a draft of cold air.
"Who is she?"
"Is that Rossi’s new girl?"
"Since when does Zo bring women to Commission events?"
I kept my chin up, ignoring the stares, keeping my focus on the surroundings. Within twenty minutes, I noticed something strange.
Near the bar, a stocky man in his fifties with a sharp mustache—Sal Moretti—was speaking to Frankie, Zo’s second-in-command. Frankie was holding a glass of scotch, his knuckles white against the glass. He handed a small USB drive to Moretti under the lip of the high-top table.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
Frankie.
I pulled gently on Zo’s sleeve. He leaned down immediately, his ear inches from my lips.
"Frankie just handed Sal Moretti a encrypted thumb drive at the bar," I whispered rapidly. "It was the same blue drive you kept in your private study wall safe."
Zo didn't flinch. His jaw muscles clenched, but his expression remained perfectly smooth as he smiled at a passing city commissioner.
"Are you certain?" Zo asked, his voice barely a breath.
"I inventoried that safe yesterday," I replied firmly. "The serial number on the casing was marked with green tape. I saw the tape."
Zo slowly turned his head toward the bar. His brown eyes turned lethal, cold as the ice in his whiskey glass.
"Frankie has been with my family for twelve years," Zo murmured softly. "I gave him his first crew."
"He’s selling you out, Zo," I whispered.
May you like
Zo looked down at me, his gaze lingering on my face for a long, heavy moment. The distance between us evaporated in the crowded ballroom.
"Then it’s time to change the rules again," Zo said quietly. "Stay close to me, Tessa. Things are about to get loud."
