Chapter 3 - The Broken Tradition
The silence that fell over the ballroom was absolute. You could hear the distant, melancholy wail of a police siren outside the iron gates, a reminder of the violent world waiting just beyond the manicured hedges.
One hundred heiresses held their breath. Shoulders squared, chins lifted, every single woman in the room leaned forward slightly, projecting an aura of untouchable confidence. Katarina Vulov actually took a half-step toward the dais, her hand outstretched as if to receive the crown already.
Luca Moretti did not move.
He stood tall, his hands clasped behind the small of his back, his black tuxedo absorbing the chandelier light. He did not look at the crowd. He did not look at the Russian syndicate boss, who was already smiling a triumphant, shark-like grin.
Instead, Luca turned his head slowly.
His green eyes found the service door near the back of the ballroom. They tracked across the marble floor, following the invisible line that led straight to the pillar where Luna stood frozen like a statue.
A cold prickle of dread raced down Luna’s spine. No, her mind screamed. No, he wouldn't. He couldn't.
It was a nightmare scenario. If Luca looked at her—if he even so much as acknowledged her presence in front of the most dangerous men in America—it would sign her death warrant. The mafia families would tear her apart limb from limb before midnight. To them, she wasn't even a person; she was an insult, a deliberate mockery of their bloodlines and power.
"Luca," Don Salvatore prompted, a slight frown creasing his weathered brow as he noticed his son’s lack of movement. "The room waits."
Luca stepped away from the dais.
The movement sent a ripple of confusion through the front rows. Katarina’s smile faltered, her hand dropping awkwardly to her side. The assembly shifted, murmurs rising like the tide before a storm.
Luca walked past the clusters of stunned heiresses. His heavy leather shoes clicked rhythmically against the marble, each step deafening in the charged silence. He didn't look left or right. He walked with the terrifying, unstoppable momentum of an avalanche.
Vincent Torino stepped forward, his hand sliding instinctively toward the holster beneath his armpit. "Boss," Vincent warned in a low, dangerous growl, "what are you doing? The Russian delegation is right—"
"Shut your mouth, Vincent," Luca said without breaking his stride. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried the weight of an executioner's axe.
Vincent froze, his face draining of color.
Luca kept walking. Straight toward the pillars. Straight toward the shadows where the service trays were stacked.
"Luna."
Her name dropped into the silence like a stone in a deep well.
Luna’s knees buckled. Her grip on the silver tray slipped, and with a metallic crash that echoed off the vaulted ceilings, the tray hit the marble floor, scattering empty champagne flutes into a thousand glittering shards.
She didn't care about the glass. She couldn't breathe.
Luca stopped right in front of her. Standing towering and immense in his immaculate tuxedo, he reached out and gently—with a tenderness that contrasted violently with the brutal world around them—took her ink-stained, trembling hand in his.
The entire ballroom gasped. It was a sound like a collective intake of breath from a thousand execution victims.
Don Salvatore rose halfway out of his velvet armchair, his face turning an alarming shade of purple. "Luca! Have you lost your mind? That is a—"
Luca turned his head, locking eyes with his father across the silent expanse of the room, his jaw set like granite.
"She is not a maid, Father," Luca said, his voice ringing crystal clear across the ballroom, carrying every syllable to every terrified, stunned guest.
May you like
He turned back to Luna, lifting her small, calloused hand and pressing a slow, deliberate kiss against her knuckles.
"I choose her."
