Chapter 4 - The Gala of Wolves
The grand ballroom of the Drake Hotel was a sea of crystal chandeliers, flowing champagne, and diamond-encrusted hypocrisy. Chicago’s elite—politicians, hedge fund managers, judges, and high-ranking syndicate figures—mingled effortlessly beneath the glittering lights, their dark deeds hidden beneath layers of tuxedo satin and French perfume.
I stood beside the towering marble pillars near the ballroom entrance, feeling completely out of my element.
The dress Marcus had driven me to pick out was a masterpiece of black silk that hugged my curves before falling into a floor-length cascade with a daring slit up the left leg. A delicate silver pendant, an antique loaned to me by Helena, rested against the hollow of my throat. My hair was swept up into an elegant, loose chignon.
When Adrian had stepped out of his penthouse to escort me downstairs, he had stopped dead in his tracks for a full five seconds. He hadn't said I looked beautiful—Adrian Voss wasn't a man of cheap compliments—but the sudden darkening of his eyes and the clench of his jaw had spoken volumes.
"Relax your shoulders, Sophie," Adrian murmured into my ear now, his warm breath sending a shiver dancing across the back of my neck. He was standing close enough that his tailored shoulder brushed against mine. "You look like you're waiting for an executioner."
"In this crowd, I might be," I whispered back, scanning the room. "Half these people look like they want to murder you, and the other half look like they want to rob you."
Adrian let out a low chuckle, a rich, dark sound that vibrated through my senses. "A very accurate assessment. Keep your eyes on the man in the charcoal tuxedo near the ice sculpture. That is Viktor Vance."
I looked across the ballroom. Viktor Vance was in his late fifties, with slicked-back silver hair, cold predatory eyes, and a cruel, thin mouth. But what made my blood run cold was the person standing directly behind him, holding Vance’s drink like an eager, obedient dog.
Daniel Mercer.
My former manager was wearing a rented tuxedo that was slightly too tight around the shoulders. His eyes were darting nervously around the room, full of bitter resentment, until suddenly, his gaze collided with mine.
Daniel’s eyes widened in sheer shock. Then, his face twisted into an ugly, venomous sneer. He leaned down and whispered urgently into Viktor Vance’s ear, pointing discreetly in my direction.
"Adrian," I whispered, tension coiling in my gut. "Daniel is here. Working for Vance."
Adrian didn't even turn his head. "I know. When I blacklisted him from every reputable restaurant in the Midwest, he went running to the only man desperate enough to hire a disgraced rat for scraps. Daniel gave Vance information regarding my compound’s delivery schedules in exchange for protection."
"And you let him?" I asked, horrified.
"A predictable traitor is useful," Adrian said coldly. "He only knows what I allow him to know."
Before I could ask anything else, Viktor Vance began walking toward us, a smirk playing on his weathered face. Daniel scurried behind him like a loyal shadow.
"Adrian," Vance boomed, his voice carrying just enough weight to turn nearby heads. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't show your face tonight. Not after the minor... shipping delay at the Calumet docks last night."
Adrian’s expression remained an unreadable mask of stone. "A minor delay, Viktor. My cargo was secured. Yours, however, seems to have washed up near Gary, Indiana. I hear the Coast Guard was very thorough."
Vance’s jaw twitched, a flash of murderous fury breaking through his polished facade. He took a sip of his bourbon to compose himself, and then his eyes slid slowly over to me, crawling over my body like oil on water.
"And who is this exquisite creature?" Vance asked, his voice dripping with condescension. "You usually don't bring your playthings to public functions, Adrian."
Before Adrian could speak, Daniel puffed out his chest, stepping forward from behind Vance.
"She's nobody, Mr. Vance," Daniel sneered, his voice loud enough to draw the attention of a nearby senator and his wife. "Her name is Sophie Carter. Just a broke, pathetic waitress I had to fire two days ago from The Linden Room for stealing. She lives in a rat-infested walk-up in Ravenswood. Looks like she found a way to upgrade her clientele."
A collective murmur rippled through the surrounding guests. Whispers of *"Waitress?"* and *"A thief?"* hissed like venom through the air.
My chest burned with shame, the old instinct to shrink away rising in my throat. But before I could take a step back, a warm, heavy hand settled firmly against the small of my back.
Adrian stepped forward, effortlessly placing himself halfway between me and Vance, his presence suddenly suffocating the entire corner of the ballroom.
"Choose your next words with extreme care, Mercer," Adrian said. His voice was entirely devoid of anger, which made it ten times more terrifying. It was the voice of a judge reading a death warrant.
Daniel flinched, remembering the restaurant floor, but Vance put a heavy hand on Daniel’s shoulder, emboldened by the public setting.
"Now, now, Adrian," Vance chuckled thinly. "My associate is merely stating facts. Is Chicago’s great kingpin really taking scraps from the help? It looks desperate. If you're having financial troubles, you could always sell me your south terminals."
Adrian didn't blink. He reached into his tuxedo jacket, and Daniel visibly ducked, anticipating a gun. Several women nearby gasped.
Instead, Adrian produced a sleek platinum fountain pen and a personalized checkbook. Resting the small ledger against the palm of his hand, he wrote a number, signed it with a sweeping flourish, and tore the check from the book.
He didn't hand it to Vance. He turned to me, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that took my breath away.
"Miss Carter," Adrian said, his voice carrying clearly across the silent ballroom. "This is a five-hundred-thousand-dollar donation in your name to the Northwestern Autoimmune Research Institute."
I stared at him, stunned.
Adrian then turned his gaze back to Daniel, his eyes freezing into absolute zero.
"Sophie Carter is the newly appointed Executive Director of the Voss Philanthropic Trust," Adrian announced smoothly, commanding every ear in the room. "She oversees more capital in a single afternoon than your entire family will generate in three generations, Daniel. And as of tonight, she is under my personal protection. Anyone who insults her insults me. Anyone who touches her answers to my gun."
He stepped up until his chest was an inch from Vance’s.
"And as for you, Viktor," Adrian whispered, loud enough only for the four of us to hear. "Take your dog and leave this ballroom before I decide to turn the Calumet river into your cemetery."
Vance’s face turned an apoplectic shade of purple. He glared at Adrian, then down at the check, realizing he had been utterly outplayed in front of the city's elite.
"This isn't over, Voss," Vance snarled under his breath. He grabbed Daniel roughly by the scruff of his collar. "Let's go."
As the crowd parted to let Vance and a humiliated Daniel slink toward the exit, the whispers resumed—this time filled with awe and hushed fear directed at me.
My heart was racing at a hundred miles an hour. Adrian looked down at me, his hand still resting possessively against my lower back.
"Are you all right?" he asked quietly.
"Did you... did you really just donate half a million dollars just to shut Daniel up?" I whispered, my voice trembling.
May you like
Adrian leaned down, his lips brushing the curve of my ear. "I would have burned the hotel down to shut him up, Sophie. Let's go. We're leaving."
***
