Chapter 8 - An Ambush at the Penthouse Gala
The revelation in the private gallery shifted the dynamic between them forever.
Over the next three weeks, Sadi was no longer a captive maid playing a part; she was the rising queen of Chicago’s high society. Under Roman’s watchful, possessive guidance, she stepped into the upper echelons of the city’s elite.
Whenever they attended charity galas, private museum viewings, or high-stakes business dinners, Roman never left her side. He proudly paraded her on his arm, daring anyone with a whisper or a smirk to meet his lethal gaze. Chicago society quickly learned that complimenting Sadi Miller was the quickest way to earn Roman Rossi’s favor, while disrespecting her meant financial and social ruin.
Her family had noticed the change.
Brenda called every two days, suddenly desperate to be involved in Sadi’s life, hinting broadly at wanting invitations to private country club boxes and lavish dinners. Derek had sent seven desperate text messages, begging for "just five minutes to talk and clear the air," all of which Roman read with amused contempt before blocking the number permanently.
However, the peace was an illusion.
On a crisp Friday evening in November, Roman and Sadi attended the annual Children’s Memorial Hospital Gala, held in the breathtaking glass penthouse ballroom of the modern skyscraper overlooking Lake Michigan.
Sadi wore a custom, midnight-blue silk gown that cascaded over her curves like liquid night, slit to the mid-thigh to reveal elegant silver strappy heels. A necklace of sapphires and diamonds encircled her throat—a gift Roman had presented to her that morning with a kiss that had left her breathless for hours.
As they moved through the crowd of politicians, judges, and corporate magnates, Roman’s hand remained firmly anchored on the small of her back.
"You are mesmerizing tonight, Sadi," Roman whispered in her ear, leaning down so close his warm breath sent shivers racing across her collarbone.
"You're distracting the governor, Roman," she teased lightly, sipping her sparkling water. "He’s been trying to talk to you about the harbor contract for twenty minutes, and you haven't looked away from my neckline once."
"The governor can wait," Roman replied smoothly. "The harbor isn't nearly as captivating."
Suddenly, a disturbance rippled through the glass double doors of the penthouse ballroom.
Four men in server uniforms pushed through the catering entrance. But instead of carrying champagne flutes, they drew suppressed automatic pistols from beneath their linen aprons.
"Down! Everybody down!" the lead gunman shouted, firing three rounds into the grand ice sculpture in the center of the room.
The heavy ice shattered into a thousand jagged shards. Screams erupted instantly. The wealthy socialites dove beneath banquet tables, knocking over crystal centerpieces and floral arrangements in absolute terror.
Roman’s reaction was instantaneous.
In a single, fluid motion, he pulled Sadi behind a heavy, reinforced marble pillar, shielding her entire body with his own. He reached beneath his tuxedo jacket, drawing his customized Glock.
"Stay behind the stone," Roman commanded, his voice cold, steady, and razor-sharp. "Do not look out."
"Roman, there are civilians everywhere!" Sadi cried, gripping his arm.
"They aren't here for civilians," Roman said grimly. "Salvatore Moretti hired foreign contract hitters. They know they can't breach the estate, so they chose a public trap."
Two gunmen advanced on their position, flanking the marble pillar.
Roman didn't wait to be cornered. He leaned out with lethal precision, firing two rapid shots. The first shooter collapsed instantly with a round through his eye socket. Roman pivoted, dodging a spray of suppressed bullets that chewed into the marble molding, and fired twice more, dropping the second assailant before the man could clear his weapon.
"Clear the service stairs!" Roman barked into his hidden lapel mic. "Dante, bring the armored transport to the lower loading dock now!"
"Boss! We have three more converging on the north terrace!" his captain’s voice crackled through the earpiece.
Roman grabbed Sadi’s hand, pulling her through the smoke and shattered glass toward the private executive elevator bank. But as they rounded the corner of the corridor, the elevator doors dinged open.
Stepping out was not a rescue team.
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Standing in the elevator was Salvatore Moretti himself—a gaunt, silver-haired sociopath with dead eyes, wearing a black trench coat, holding a heavy-caliber revolver pointed directly at Sadi’s chest.
"Good evening, Rossi," Salvatore sneered, his finger tightening on the trigger. "Let’s see how much that alibi is worth when your whore is bleeding on the carpet."
