Chapter 12 - The Palermo Gala
Three days after the incident in the lemon groves, the annual maritime charter gala took place at the Palazzo Valenti in downtown Palermo.
It was an event that brought together fifty of the most powerful shipping magnates, political figures, and syndicate leaders across Southern Europe. In the past, Vincent would have attended alone, or accompanied by a carefully vetted society debutante whose family name carried weight in the European chambers.
Tonight, he arrived with a former kitchen maid from Brooklyn on his arm and a three-year-old terrorist asleep in a custom silk carrier tucked against the chest of a nanny who looked like she belonged in a Italian fashion magazine.
The gown Vincent had had custom-made for me in Milan arrived by courier forty-eight hours prior—a stunning, minimalist emerald-silk creation that hugged my waist and cascaded down to silver-strapped heels.
When we stepped out of the black Mercedes onto the red carpet of the Palazzo Valenti, the flashbulbs from the European press corps went off like a chain of firecrackers.
Cassandra’s father—who still held a minor minority share in the Mediterranean transport board—was standing near the grand marble staircase, holding a glass of champagne. When he saw Vincent walk through the heavy arched doors with me resting my hand lightly on his forearm, his glass slipped from his fingers, shattering against the stone floor with a sharp, echoing crack.
Vincent didn't even glance his way.
He guided me through the crowd with the absolute, unshakeable authority of a man who owned the room, the building, and the ground beneath it.
At the head table overlooking the inner courtyard, Italian ministers and shipping commissioners stood up to greet us.
“Signor Moretti,” the Italian Minister of Infrastructure smiled, raising his glass. “And this must be the brilliant young manager I’ve heard so much about from your New York terminal.”
May you like
Vincent seated me directly to his right, his hand resting casually on the back of my velvet chair.
“Not a manager, Minister,” Vincent said, his dark eyes meeting mine with a quiet, devastating warmth. “Family.”
