Chapter 8 - Blood on the Ballroom Floor
By 8:00 PM, the world I knew had dissolved completely.
I stood before a floor-to-ceiling mirror in the guest suite of the Lake Forest mansion, barely recognizing the young woman staring back at me.
Gone was the tired girl in grease-stained sneakers and a faded hoodie. In her place stood someone who looked like she belonged on the cover of a high-fashion magazine. I wore an emerald-green silk evening gown that hugged my frame, with a daring slit down the left leg and an open back. Diamond drops hung from my ears, and my dark hair was styled into intricate, cascading waves.
"You look stunning, Miss Riley," Dr. Chen said, entering the room with a warm smile. She held Toby’s hand.
My brother was wearing silk pajamas, looking more rested and alert than he had in months. His cheeks had a faint touch of color, thanks to the preliminary blood-filtration treatments Dr. Morrison's team had already administered.
"Riley!" Toby gasped, his mouth dropping open. "You look like a movie star!"
I knelt down, mindful of the expensive silk, and hugged him tight. "You be good for Dr. Chen, okay? Take your meds, watch your cartoons. I have to go to work."
"More coffee?" Toby asked innocently.
"Something like that," I whispered, kissing his cheek.
When I stepped into the grand hall, Carmela was waiting. She wore a dramatic crimson gown that concealed the body armor beneath, accompanied by Matteo and eight men in black tuxedos.
"Tonight, Riley, you are my niece from the West Coast," Carmela instructed as we climbed into the armored limousine. "You stay on my right side. You say nothing about business. You simply observe. When Julian sees me walk through those doors alive, his panic will be immediate. He will look to his co-conspirators. I need your eyes. You watched Sal Rossi's movements. You know how desperate men look when the ground collapses beneath them."
"And what happens when you find out who helped him?" I asked, my voice trembling slightly.
Carmela looked at me, her eyes like twin gun barrels. "Justice."
The Drake Hotel was ablaze with light. Hundreds of Chicago's elite—politicians, judges, corporate titans, and underworld royalty—mingled under the crystal chandeliers of the Grand Ballroom. Classical strings played softly in the background as champagne flowed from ice sculptures.
At the center of the room stood Julian Moretti. He was in his late twenties, handsome, with slicked-back dark hair and an easy, predatory smile. He was holding court with three prominent city councilmen, raising a glass of vintage champagne.
"—to a new era of prosperity for our city's enterprises," Julian was saying, his voice carrying smoothly across the crowd. "An era of modernization and bold leadership—"
The heavy oak doors of the ballroom slammed open.
The music choked to a sudden, violent halt. The laughter died.
Carmela Romano stepped into the hall.
She didn't use her cane. She walked with the slow, terrifying grace of an empress who had returned from the underworld to reclaim her throne. Beside her, I held my head high, matching her pace, while Matteo flanked us like a shadow of pure death.
Julian’s champagne flute slipped from his fingers. It shattered against the parquet floor, crystal and golden liquid splashing across his polished leather shoes.
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"Julian, darling," Carmela’s voice rang out through the dead silence, clear, sweet, and venomous. "You look as though you've seen a ghost."
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