Chapter 6 - The Elegance of the Gala
The annual Corvino Charity Ball was held on the first Saturday of November at the Blackstone Hotel. It was the premier event of the winter social calendar, a night where the legitimate business community of Chicago mingled with the shadow rulers of the city over plates of black truffle risotto and crystal flutes of Dom Pérignon.
For five years, Vincent had walked into that ballroom with Arya on his arm, his tailored tuxedo fitting his six-foot-two frame like a suit of modern armor.
This year, the crowd went silent when the elevator doors opened at eight o'clock.
Vincent Corvino did not walk. He was wheeled into the room by Rocco, his black tuxedo custom-fitted to accommodate the chair, his shoulders broad and square against the silk backing. He looked like an iron monument sitting in the center of a room made of glass.
Arya was already there, standing beneath the central crystal chandelier, surrounded by a dozen socialites and two city councilmen. She was wearing a stunning, backless gown of silver chainmail that caught the light with every breath she took. When she saw Vincent, her face underwent that familiar, instantaneous rearrangement—the smooth, polite mask of a woman who was managing a tragic situation with immense grace.
“Vincent, darling,” she said, her heels clicking across the parquet floor as she stepped toward him. She didn't lean down to kiss him; she simply rested her hand on the back of his chair, using the contact to position herself for the society photographers who were already angling for a shot. “We were just telling Judge Harrison about the new rehabilitation facility you’re supporting in Lake Forest. It’s so important to keep your mind occupied during these months.”
Vincent looked up at her, his green eyes reflecting the cold silver of her dress. “My mind is fully occupied, Arya. In fact, I’ve been reviewing the guest list for tonight’s dinner. I noticed we have three empty seats at the head table.”
Arya’s smile didn't fade, but her eyes went sharp and thin as needles. “The Moretti family cancelled their reservation this morning, Vince. You know how the traffic can be from the South Side.”
“The Morettis didn't cancel, Arya,” a voice said from behind the chair.
Tessa Rossi stepped into the light of the chandelier. She was not wearing her gray uniform tonight; Vincent had spent three thousand dollars on a simple, high-necked black silk dress that clung to her small frame with a quiet, classic elegance that made Arya’s silver chainmail look loud, cheap, and performative. Her hair was pulled back into a neat, dark twist, her only jewelry the small gold cicada brooch that Vincent’s mother had given her decades ago.
She carried a small silver tray containing three signed receipts from the customs house in Hammond.
“The Morettis are currently at the terminal on Sixty-Third Street, Miss Arya,” Tessa said, her voice clear enough to carry over the sound of the string quartet. “They are waiting for the gray sedan that usually arrives at two in the morning. But the driver was detained by Mr. Rocco’s boys forty minutes ago.”
The circle of socialites around Arya went completely still. Judge Harrison took a slow step backward, his glass of champagne shaking slightly in his hand as he recognized the look on Vincent’s face—the exact look that usually preceded a federal grand jury investigation.
Dominic Varga stepped out from the crowd, his face pale, his hand reaching toward his inside jacket pocket. “Vince, look, this isn't the place for this—”
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Before his hand could clear his lapel, Rocco’s massive paw settled over Dominic’s shoulder, his thumb pressing into the nerve cluster until the underboss went down onto one knee on the parquet floor, his face twisting with sudden, agonizing pain.
“In my family, Dominic,” Vincent said, his voice a low, terrifying hum that seemed to clear the space around him by ten feet, “we don't use the charity ball to settle the books. But since you’re already on your knees, you can hand your car keys to Tessa. She’s the new logistics manager for the North Side.”
