Chapter 4 - THE SYNDICATE GALA
A Transformation of Blood and SilkThe dress was a masterpiece of midnight-blue silk, backless and plunging, tailored so perfectly to Hazel’s body it felt like a second skin. Around her neck hung the Castellano tears—a diamond necklace worth millions, its cold weight resting heavily against her collarbone. The makeup artist had styled her hair into a sophisticated, elegant updo, leaving a few tendrils to frame her face, emphasizing her striking resemblance to the late Clara.
When Dominic entered the dressing room, he stopped dead in his tracks. The breath caught in his throat, his eyes darkening with a potent mix of grief and raw, primal lust. He walked over to her, his hand resting lightly against the bare skin of her lower back, a jolt of electricity shooting through Hazel at the touch.
"You look breathtaking," he murmured, his voice husky. "For a moment, I forgot how to breathe."
"Let’s just get this over with," Hazel said, trying to mask the flutter in her stomach. "Remember your promise. I get to speak to Lily on Sunday."
"A Castellano always keeps his word," Dominic said, offering his arm.
The gala was held at a secure, historic estate in Coral Gables. As their armored limousine pulled up to the red carpet, paparazzi flashes exploded against the bulletproof glass. The air was thick with tension; this was a gathering of the most dangerous individuals in the country, masked behind tuxedos and haute couture.
When Dominic walked into the grand ballroom with Hazel on his arm, a palpable wave of shock rippled through the crowd. Whispers broke out like wildfire.
"Is that... Clara?" someone muttered.
"No, it can't be. Clara’s dead. Who is that woman?"
Dominic ignored them all, walking with an air of absolute authority, guiding Hazel toward the VIP section where the high-ranking bosses sat. Marcus Vance was already there, holding a glass of bourbon, his eyes narrowing to dangerous slits the moment he saw Hazel.
The Dance of Deception"Dominic," Marcus said, stepping forward, his eyes devouring Hazel in her silk dress. "You certainly know how to make an entrance. And you’ve brought a ghost with you. Or should I say... an incredibly talented actress?"
"Marcus," Dominic replied, his voice smooth and dangerous. "I believe you remember Hazel. She has assumed a more permanent position within my household."
Marcus smiled, a sinister, oily expression. "A permanent position? How delightful. Tell me, Hazel, does the maid know how to dance, or do you only know how to clean up after your betters?"
Before Hazel could respond, Dominic took her hand, leading her onto the grand dance floor as the orchestra began a slow, dramatic waltz.
Hazel was terrified she would trip over her dress, but Dominic guided her effortlessly, his large hand firm on her waist, holding her close against his chest. For a few minutes, the ballroom vanished. There were no mafia bosses, no threats, no sick daughters. There was only the rhythm of the music and the intense, burning gaze of the man holding her.
"You are doing perfectly," Dominic whispered, his eyes locked onto hers. "Keep looking at me just like that. Let them think I am entirely distracted by you."
"Are you?" Hazel asked, the question slipping out before she could stop it.
Dominic’s hand tightened on her waist, pulling her flush against him. "More than I care to admit, Hazel. More than is safe for either of us."
The music ended, and the crowd applauded softly. Dominic was immediately called away by an elderly boss for a private meeting in the conservatory. He leaned down, kissing Hazel softly on the cheek—a gesture for the crowd, but one that left her face burning.
"Stay here with my guards," Dominic whispered. "I will be back in five minutes."
The DisappearanceTen minutes passed. Then fifteen. Hazel began to feel uneasy. The ballroom felt increasingly suffocating, the eyes of a hundred criminals drilling into her back.
"Excuse me," Hazel said to the guard standing beside her. "I need to use the restroom."
"I will escort you, ma'am," the guard replied.
They walked out of the ballroom down a quieter corridor. As Hazel entered the luxurious ladies' room, she took a deep breath, splashing cold water on her face, trying to shake the feeling of impending doom.
When she came out, the corridor was empty. The guard who had been escorting her was slumped against the wall, a small, bloody puncture wound in his neck. He was unconscious—or dead.
Before Hazel could scream, a thick, chemically treated cloth was shoved over her mouth from behind. A pair of strong arms locked around her waist, dragging her into a service stairwell. She thrashed wildly, kicking and scratching, but the fumes of the chloroform were too strong. Her vision began to blur, the diamonds around her neck feeling like a heavy noose.
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The last thing she saw before darkness claimed her was the twisted, triumphant face of Marcus Vance, leaning over her with a sinister grin.
"Tell Dominic," Marcus whispered into the dark, "that if he wants his little bird back, he has to sign over the Miami ports by midnight. Or she ends up just like the first one."
