Chapter 6 - The Emerald Winter Gala
The Emerald Winter Gala was the most prestigious social event in the Pacific Northwest—an annual charity ball hosted at the Seattle Art Museum, attended by governors, tech billionaires, foreign diplomats, and the old-money elite.
It was also the traditional neutral ground where Seattle’s rival factions kept their fragile peace.
“Are you sure it’s safe to go?” I asked as Luca fastened a breathtaking diamond-and-emerald necklace around my throat. The cold platinum sent shivers down my spine, while the emeralds matched the deep green velvet of my custom evening gown, designed with a high slit that discreetly accommodated my sleek black orthopedic brace.
Luca’s hands lingered on my bare shoulders, his fingers warm and steady. In the mirror, his reflection stood tall behind mine—a predator in a midnight-black tuxedo, commanding absolute authority.
“Neutral ground is an illusion, Ava,” Luca said calmly. “If we hide in the fortress, Sergei Volkov will think we are weak. He will think I am afraid to show my wife to the world. In our world, the moment you display fear, the wolves strike. Tonight, we show them that the Castellano empire is unified, impenetrable, and lethal.”
“And Emma?”
“Emma is in the subterranean safe bunker beneath the estate, guarded by thirty of my most loyal elite soldiers, led by Dante’s brother, Marco. A nuclear strike couldn't breach that bunker. She is completely safe.”
An hour later, our motorcade of four black armored limousines arrived at the Seattle Art Museum. Flashes of hundreds of paparazzi cameras lit up the rainy night like lightning. Red carpets stretched from the curb to the towering glass entrance.
Reporters shouted over the barricades:
“Mr. Castellano! Is it true you were secretly married yesterday?”
“Who is the new Donna of Seattle?”
“Mr. Castellano, look this way!”
Luca ignored the press entirely. He stepped out of the vehicle, turned, and offered his arm to me. I took it, holding my head high, drawing strength from his iron composure. As we stepped into the grand marble atrium beneath soaring glass installations, the ambient roar of three hundred elite guests dropped into an immediate, stunned hush.
Whispers rippled through the ballroom like wildfire.
“That’s Arthur Carter’s daughter…”
“She married Luca Castellano?”
“Look at the diamonds on her neck…”
Luca walked beside me with sovereign grace, guiding me toward the VIP mezzanine overlooking the grand ballroom. Every billionaire, senator, and shipping magnate bowed their heads as we passed, acknowledging the king of the city and his new queen.
Suddenly, the crowd parted near the grand staircase.
A tall, broad-shouldered man with slicked-back blonde hair, pale blue eyes, and a thick Russian accent stepped forward, holding a flute of champagne. Behind him stood two massive men with shaved heads and visible neck tattoos.
Sergei Volkov.
“Don Luca,” Sergei smiled, though his pale eyes were as cold as a Siberian winter. “Word travels fast across the Sound. I hear congratulations are in order.”
Luca stopped, positioning himself half a step in front of me, his posture relaxed yet radiating lethal readiness. “Volkov. I didn’t think you had the stomach to show your face in Seattle after the Tacoma incident.”
Sergei chuckled, taking a sip of his champagne. “Tacoma was merely a business misunderstanding. But allow me to introduce my new American associate. He was very eager to congratulate the lovely bride.”
The crowd parted further.
Stepping out from behind the Russian guards was Jake Martinez.
He wore a flashy designer tuxedo, his slick smile plastered across his face—the same handsome, predatory smile that had fooled me four years ago. But behind his eyes was desperate, cornered madness.
“Hello, Ava,” Jake sneered, his gaze sweeping over my emeralds and designer dress with greedy disgust. “You look expensive. Funny how you couldn't afford my debts, but you can dress like a queen for the mafia.”
My blood ran cold, but before I could speak, Luca moved.
With speed that defied human perception, Luca closed the distance. His left hand shot out like an iron vice, wrapping entirely around Jake’s throat and lifting him four inches off the marble floor, slamming him violently against the grand stone pillar behind him.
Jake’s champagne glass shattered on the floor. He gagged, his face turning instantly purple, his legs kicking uselessly in the air.
The entire ballroom gasped in horror. Sergei’s guards reached for their jackets, but within a fraction of a second, twenty Castellano men in the crowd drew suppressed handguns, aiming directly at the Russians' heads.
The room fell into deathly, terrified silence.
May you like
Luca leaned in close to Jake’s bulging eyes, his voice a chilling, quiet whisper that carried across the frozen hall.
“You have five seconds to apologize to my wife for breathing her air,” Luca murmured. “Or I will rip your vocal cords out through your throat in front of every judge and senator in this room.”
