Chapter 7 - The Trap at the GalaTwo weeks later, the fragile peace of the Rinaldi estate was tested by fire.
Dante was forced to attend a high-society charity gala at the Stamford Harbor Hotel—a heavily guarded public event hosted by the city's elite, and a notorious hotspot for rival syndicates looking to send a message.
To Claire’s complete astonishment, Dante walked into her quarters that evening holding a garment bag.
"Wear this," he said, setting it on the bed.
Claire unzipped it to reveal an emerald-green silk evening gown that looked like it cost more than her car, her apartment, and her life savings combined.
"I'm the nanny, Mr. Rinaldi. I'm staying home with the boys."
"You're not staying anywhere alone," Dante said flatly, his jaw set. "My intelligence reports say tonight’s gala is a target. I need eyes on the inside that my security team doesn't control. And the boys are coming too—in a secure armored vehicle behind us."
When Claire stepped out of the dressing room twenty minutes later in the emerald gown, her dark hair swept up into an elegant twist with a few loose strands framing her face, Dante stopped dead in his tracks.
The cold, ruthless mafia boss looked at her as if he had just seen a ghost. The air between them suddenly felt dangerously thin.
"You clean up well, Ms. Beaumont," Dante murmured, his voice dropping an octave as he offered her his arm.
"Don't sound so surprised," Claire retorted, slipping her hand into the crook of his arm, feeling the hard, solid muscle beneath his sleeve. "I used to work velvet-rope banquets in Boston before the restaurant crashed."
At the gala, the ballroom was blinding chandeliers, champagne flutes, and glittering diamonds. But Claire didn't look at the jewelry. Her training from DeMarco’s Grill—watching every face, tracking every sudden movement—kicked in instantly.
At 9:45 PM, she saw him.
A waiter carrying a silver tray near the private VIP balcony didn't look like catering staff. His hands were too steady, his shoulders too square, and his eyes were locked entirely on Dante, who was talking to the mayor near the stage.
"Dante," Claire hissed into the discreet earpiece Brandt had given her.
Before Dante could turn, the fake waiter reached inside his tuxedo jacket, pulling out a suppressed automatic pistol.
Panic erupted across the ballroom. Screams echoed off the crystal chandeliers as guests scrambled for the exits.
Claire didn't scream. She grabbed a heavy crystal champagne bucket filled with ice, hoisted it over her shoulder, and hurled it across the ten-foot gap straight at the gunman’s head.
CRASH.
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The heavy silver bucket caught the assassin square in the jaw, sending him crashing backward over the balcony railing into the indoor fountain below.
Silence slammed into the ballroom—except for the heavy breathing of Dante Rinaldi, who stood three feet away with his own gun drawn, staring at Claire as if she had just materialized from another dimension.
