Chapter 5 - The Trap at the GalaThe grand ballroom of the Drake Hotel glittered with crystal chandeliers, expensive champagne, and the elite of Chicago's high society—most of whom laundered money for the Lombardi Syndicate before breakfast.
I stood near the back in a borrowed designer gown that felt like a second skin, holding a glass of sparkling water I hadn't touched. Oliver was safe back at the estate with a medical team and a platoon of guards, but my mind was entirely focused on the man sitting at the center table.
Sebastian Lombardi.
He wore a bespoke tuxedo that cost more than my old car, sitting tall in his titanium wheelchair. To the casual observer, he looked like the untouchable kingpin of the city. But I knew the truth. Hidden beneath the heavy fabric of his tailored trousers, copper braces reinforced his legs, and my hands had spent the last three hours preparing his muscles for what was about to come.
"Ladies and gentlemen," a smooth, venomous voice echoed over the microphone.
Vincent Moretti—Sebastian's primary rival on the Syndicate board—stepped up to the podium. He had a snake-like smile and eyes full of ambition.
"Tonight, we celebrate the enduring legacy of the Lombardi family," Moretti purred, his gaze cutting straight toward Sebastian's table. "Though our dear leader has spent twenty years ruling from the shadows of his chair... some rumors suggest that an empire cannot be held by a man who cannot stand."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Moretti was openly challenging Sebastian's throne, testing his authority in front of every major crime boss in the Midwest.
Sebastian didn't flinch. He slowly set his glass down on the table. The sound of crystal hitting wood echoed loudly across the dead silence of the ballroom.
"Moretti," Sebastian's voice boomed without a microphone, carrying effortlessly across the massive hall. "You talk a lot for a dead man."
Moretti sneer twisted. "You're sitting down, Sebastian. You have no army here tonight that can save you from a vote of no confidence."
Sebastian gripped the armrests of his wheelchair.
I held my breath from across the room, my hands clenched into tight fists. Not yet, I prayed silently. Not yet.
Sebastian locked eyes with me. He gave me a single, imperceptible nod.
Slowly, agonizingly, Sebastian pushed his palms against the armrests. His upper body strained, every muscle in his neck bulging as he forced his hips forward. The entire ballroom gasped in unison.
For twenty years, Chicago had believed Sebastian Lombardi was permanently crippled.
And then, with a slow, powerful heave, Sebastian stood up.
He swayed slightly on his braces, his legs trembling under the sudden weight, but he stood completely upright. Towering over six feet tall, he cast a long, terrifying shadow across the stage.
Moretti turned pale, stumbling backward against the podium, his mouth hanging open in sheer horror.
May you like
Sebastian didn't wait. He took one slow, deliberate step forward, then a second, his dark eyes fixed entirely on Moretti.
"You wanted to see if I could still rule my empire, Moretti?" Sebastian's voice echoed like thunder through the ballroom. "I built this city on my feet. And I'll bury you with my own hands."
