Chapter 10 - The Mistress of the House
The great dining hall of the DeAgostino estate was ablaze with light.
A week after the incident with the Barolo, the room was once again filled with the most dangerous men in New York. Don Moretti from Brooklyn, Don Falcone from New Jersey, and the high capos of the Five Families sat around the massive mahogany table. The tension in the room was palpable; rumors of the Sunnyside massacre had rippled through the underworld, and every man present was waiting to see what had provoked Vincent DeAgostino’s ruthless display of force.
The gilded double doors swung open.
Every head at the table turned.
Vincent entered first, impeccably dressed in a bespoke midnight-black tuxedo, moving with the lethal, predatory confidence that had made him king of the city.
But he did not walk alone.
On his arm, her good hand resting securely in the crook of his elbow, was Charlotte.
A collective gasp rippled through the room.
Charlotte was breathtaking. She wore an off-the-shoulder gown of rich, emerald-green velvet that hugged every lush, voluptuous curve of her body, flowing into an elegant train behind her. Her dark curls were swept up into an intricate chignon, secured with diamond pins. Her left arm was still encased in the sleek black cast, resting in a matching emerald sling, but she held her head high, her chin lifted, radiating a regal, undeniable dignity.
On her finger, the DeAgostino emerald caught the light of the Bohemian chandelier, flashing brilliantly for every boss to see.
Rosa and the other maids stood along the perimeter of the room, their eyes wide with awe as their former kitchen peer walked past them, not with arrogance, but with the quiet, unshakable power of a woman who was fiercely loved.
Vincent led Charlotte directly to the head of the table.
With supreme courtesy, Vincent pulled out the heavy, carved armchair at the head of the table—the very chair he usually occupied—and seated Charlotte first.
He then took his place in the seat beside her, resting his large hand openly over hers on the white linen tablecloth.
The table was utterly silent. Don Moretti, an elderly mobster with silver hair, cleared his throat, his eyes darting to Charlotte’s sling and the massive emerald on her hand.
“Vincent,” Moretti said cautiously. “We came to discuss the Queens docks. But it seems... congratulations are in order first.”
Vincent poured two glasses of Barolo from a fresh decanter. He did not let the staff touch it; he poured it himself, handing one glass to Charlotte and raising the other.
His slate-gray eyes swept across the room, cold and warning, daring a single man present to utter a disrespectful word.
“This is Charlotte,” Vincent said, his voice echoing through the grand hall with absolute, unquestioned authority. “My fiancée. The future Donna of the DeAgostino family.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle like iron into the minds of every killer at the table.
“A week ago, ten men in Queens made the fatal mistake of forgetting who she belongs to,” Vincent continued, his voice dropping into that lethal, quiet cadence. “Those ten men no longer exist. If anyone in this city—from the lowest street collector to the highest Don at this table—ever so much as looks at her without absolute respect, I will not stop at ten. I will burn this city to the bedrock.”
The capos and bosses hastily raised their glasses, bowing their heads in deep, deferential respect toward the plush, beautiful woman at the head of the table.
“To Donna Charlotte,” Moretti declared, his voice trembling slightly.
“To Donna Charlotte,” the room echoed in unison.
Charlotte looked at the sea of hardened men bowing their heads before her. Then she turned her gaze to Vincent.
He was looking at her. Not at the wine, not at the capos, not at the empire he commanded. Just at her.
Underneath the mahogany table, hidden from the eyes of the underworld, Vincent reached down and took her soft, warm hand in his, intertwining their fingers tightly.
May you like
She squeezed back, feeling the solid, unbreakable strength of the man beside her. She had spent her entire life hiding in the shadows, believing she was too heavy, too clumsy, too insignificant for love.
Now, she was seated on a throne, wrapped in velvet, protected by the most dangerous devil in New York—and she knew, with absolute certainty, that she would never be broken again.
