Chapter 6 - The Trap at The Plaza
The Grand Ballroom at The Plaza Hotel was a glittering ocean of old money, high politics, and lethal underworld power. Diamond necklaces caught the light of towering crystal chandeliers, while waiters in gold waistcoats served vintage champagne to senators, federal judges, and the heads of the most powerful families in the country.
When Dominic Russo entered the ballroom with me on his arm, a collective hush fell over the room.
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Everyone had expected Dominic to arrive with Victoria—or to arrive looking defeated after rumors of maritime disputes had leaked through Wall Street channels. Instead, he walked in looking like an emperor, accompanied by an unfamiliar, breathtaking young woman whose poise outmatched every socialite in attendance.
At the center of the VIP section stood Don Salvatore Valenti. He was an older man with silver slicked-back hair, a tailored Italian suit, and eyes like a predator. Next to him stood several high-ranking European trade envoys.
“Dominic!” Valenti boomed, smiling with false warmth as he held out his hands. “We were worried you wouldn’t make it. The international maritime committee has been waiting for your confirmation on the Trieste expansion.”
Valenti’s gaze flicked to me, his smile tightening. “And who is this exquisite young lady? I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
“This is Casey Miller,” Dominic said smoothly. “My newly appointed Chief Legal Strategist and Trustee for the Russo Maritime Conglomerate.”
A low chuckle escaped Valenti’s lips. “A legal strategist? A bit young to be handling multi-billion-dollar international waters, don't you think?”
“Age is irrelevant when precision is required, Don Valenti,” I spoke up, my voice crystal clear, commanding the attention of the surrounding diplomats and business tycoons. “Especially when reviewing treaties that attempt to invoke the nullified 1954 Trieste clauses under fraudulent power-of-attorney documentation.”
Valenti’s smile vanished instantly. His eyes narrowed into slits. “Be very careful what you say in public, young woman.”
“I’m always careful, Don Valenti,” I replied with a confident, radiant smile. “Which is why I’ve already forwarded the original 1948 Italian State Archives maritime charter directly to the United States Federal Maritime Commission and the International Court of Arbitration ten minutes ago. It turns out, your offshore shell company in Genoa has been operating on expired sovereign permits since 1998.”
A sharp gasp echoed among the German and Italian delegates standing nearby. Valenti took an aggressive half-step toward me, his knuckles turning white around his champagne flute.
“You little—”
May you like
Before he could finish his sentence, Dominic stepped between us, his towering frame casting a shadow over Valenti.
“Finish that sentence, Salvatore,” Dominic warned, his voice vibrating with absolute menace, “and this gala will be the last room you ever walk into.”
