Chapter 9 - The Ashford Hospitality Gala
Friday night arrived with the glittering splendor of a royal coronation.
The grand ballroom of the Ashford Grand Hotel was bathed in warm amber light, filled with over five hundred of the wealthiest and most influential figures from around the world. String quartets played softly from the elevated balcony, and waiters drifted smoothly through the crowd carrying flutes of vintage champagne.
I stood near the VIP mezzanine on the second-tier balcony, wearing an elegant, midnight-blue silk gown that Alexander had insisted on purchasing for me. It was sophisticated, beautiful, and tailored with hidden seams designed to allow complete freedom of movement for my arms and legs.
Beside me, Alexander stood in a custom-tailored charcoal tuxedo designed with reinforced tactical lining that looked entirely invisible to the naked eye.
“You look breathtaking, Sophia,” Alexander whispered, leaning down slightly as we watched the crowd below.
“Focus, Il Lupo,” I whispered back with a teasing smile. “Your enforcer from Chicago is about to walk through those front doors.”
Right on cue, the grand double doors at the entrance of the ballroom swung open.
A hush fell over the guests standing near the foyer.
Walking into the ballroom was a massive man built like a brick wall. Standing nearly six-foot-four, with a shaved head, a jagged scar running down his left cheek, and a white silk suit that screamed intimidation, it was none-other than Marcus “The Butcher” Moretti Jr.—Victor’s ruthless cousin and chief enforcer.
Behind him walked two armed thugs in identical black suits, their hands shoved menacingly into their jacket pockets.
The ballroom guests instinctively parted like the Red Sea, whispering in sudden terror as the Butcher strode directly toward the center aisle.
Alexander didn't flinch. He adjusted his cufflinks, took a sip of his sparkling water, and began walking down the grand staircase toward the main floor, with me trailing one step behind him over his right shoulder.
The Butcher stopped at the foot of the stairs, flashing a grotesque, yellow-toothed smile.
“Il Lupo,” the Butcher barked, his voice echoing across the high-ceilinged ballroom. “My cousin Victor sends his regards. He told me to tell you that New York’s reign is over.”
The surrounding guests gasped, stepping back in panic, pulling out their phones or covering their mouths.
Alexander stood tall, his hands relaxed at his sides, his breathing completely steady—the exact breathing technique I had taught him in the subterranean gym.
“Victor sends his regards?” Alexander replied, his voice calm, cold, and dripping with absolute dominance. “Tell your cousin that if he wants my empire, he has to come and take it himself. Not send a butcher to do a wolf’s job.”
The Butcher’s face twisted with rage. “You arrogant piece of sh—”
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In a blur of sudden violence, the Butcher lunged forward, drawing a heavy, serrated combat knife from his inner jacket lining, aiming a lethal, downward slash directly at Alexander’s throat.
The guests screamed. Panic erupted across the ballroom.
