Chapter 5 - The Gala at the Grand ContinentalTwo weeks later, the underground world of Chicago gathered at the Grand Continental Hotel for the annual charity gala—a glittering facade where politicians, CEOs, and syndicate bosses rubbed shoulders under the guise of philanthropy.
Dominic Ashford did not attend social events. Except when he wanted to send a message.
Isla stood before the full-length mirror in her dressing room, staring at her reflection in absolute disbelief. Hanging on the wardrobe door was a breathtaking, backless emerald silk gown, accompanied by diamond-encrusted drop earrings and a pair of Jimmy Choo heels. A handwritten note sat on the vanity: Wear this. You are representing the Ashford name tonight.
"I can't wear this," Isla muttered to herself, adjusting the straps.
"The master insists," Mrs. Gable said, appearing silently in the doorway like a specter. "Salvatore Moretti will be in attendance tonight. The master wants his enemies to see who stands at his right hand."
Isla’s breath caught. At his right hand. Not as a prisoner, not as a nurse, but as an equal.
When Isla walked down the grand staircase into the foyer, Dominic was waiting at the bottom. He wore a tailored midnight-blue tuxedo, his dark hair slicked back, looking every bit the ruthless, untouchable Phantom King.
For a fraction of a second, Dominic’s breath hitched. His dark eyes swept over her, taking in the emerald silk that hugged her curves, the elegant sweep of her hair, and the defiant fire in her green eyes.
"You look..." Dominic paused, searching for a word worthy of the vision before him. "...devastating."
"Don't flatter me, Ashford," Isla replied smoothly, stepping down the last step. "I'm only here to make sure your adrenaline doesn't spike and rupture your healing aorta."
Dominic offered his arm with a faint, dangerous smirk. "Then try not to look too stunning, nurse, or my heart rate will kill me before Moretti ever gets the chance."
The ballroom of the Grand Continental was a sea of crystal chandeliers, flowing champagne, and glittering jewels. When Dominic Ashford entered the room with Isla Monroe on his arm, the entire conversation in the hall died instantly. Whispers rippled through the crowd like wildfire. Who is she? The Phantom King hasn't brought a woman to a public event in a decade.
Across the room, standing near the champagne tower, Salvatore Moretti—a burly, scarred man with cold, dead eyes—tightened his grip on his glass until the crystal cracked.
As Dominic and Isla walked toward the VIP terrace, Moretti stepped directly into their path, flanked by two armed bodyguards.
"Dominic," Moretti sneered, his voice dripping with venom. "I see you've brought a nurse to tend to your inevitable funeral. Thought you'd save on medical bills?"
Dominic didn't even blink. He stepped slightly in front of Isla, shielding her while maintaining a relaxed, predatory posture. "Salvatore. You're looking well. Though I hear your warehouse operations on the South Branch have been... shrinking lately."
Moretti’s face flushed purple with rage. He shifted his gaze past Dominic’s shoulder, locking his eyes onto Isla. "So this is the little mudlark who patched you up. Tell me, sweetheart, how much is he paying you to die with him?"
Before Dominic could unleash his fury, Isla stepped gracefully out from behind his shoulder. Her chin was held high, her gaze icy and completely devoid of fear.
"More than you could ever afford, Mr. Moretti," Isla replied, her voice ringing clear and steady across the silent ballroom. "And unlike you, he actually knows how to treat a woman."
Gasps echoed through the crowd. Dominic looked down at her, a flash of pure, unfiltered shock and burning admiration crossing his lethal features.
Moretti raised a trembling hand, signaling his guards. "You arrogant little bitch—"
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In a flash of motion too fast for the eye to follow, Dominic’s hand swept inside his jacket, drawing a silenced pistol that pressed directly against Moretti’s sternum before the rival boss could even twitch.
"Touch her," Dominic whispered, his voice dropping into a register so chilling that the temperature in the room seemed to plummet, "and I will scatter your ashes across Lake Michigan before midnight."
