Chapter 9 - The Seat at the Head of the Table
The New Year’s Eve party at the Moretti Tower exactly one year later was a triumph that Chicago society would talk about for decades. The grand ballroom on the fortieth floor glittered with modern crystal, white orchids, and a warmth that had nothing to do with the heating system.
The politicians were there, the judges were there, and the real estate kings were there, but they no longer whispered in the corners about territory disputes or hidden containers. They spoke with a quiet, profound respect about the new era of Moretti Holdings—a clean, massive logistics empire that had become the backbone of Midwestern commerce.
At 11:45 PM, the music from the jazz quartet slowed into a soft, romantic waltz. The crowd parted as Dominic walked onto the floor, his black tuxedo flawless, his stride commanding.
And beside him walked his wife.
I wore a stunning, minimalist sapphire blue silk gown that flowed around me like water, my hair styled softly, the platinum ring on my finger catching the light of the chandeliers. I no longer carried a silver cane; my step was entirely firm, my stride matching his with an absolute, shared sovereignty.
We walked to the head of the main table—the one that had once been reserved for the old lineage and the false family allegiances. Dominic pulled out the high-backed velvet chair for me, and as I took my seat, the entire room stood up in a silent, unanimous toast.
Carl the watchman stood near the entrance, wearing a new uniform, a broad, proud smile on his face. Marco DeLuca sat to my right, his broad shoulders relaxed, a glass of nineteen-twenty brandy held in his hand.
Dominic took his seat beside me, his long fingers lacing through mine above the linen tablecloth. He didn't look at the politicians, didn't look at the judges, didn't look at the city glittering beneath the frost outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. He looked at me, his gray eyes soft, bright, and entirely filled with the spring.
"Happy New Year, Mrs. Moretti," he whispered as the clock began its midnight countdown.
May you like
I leaned closer, my forehead resting against his shoulder, my heart beating with a rhythm that would never be silenced again. "Happy New Year, Dominic. The manifests are perfectly filed."
He laughed—a low, beautiful sound that carried across the warm room—and as the bells began to ring throughout the city, I knew that the logic of the ice had finally been rewritten. We weren't hiding from the wolves anymore. We were the ones who owned the winter.
