Isabella POV
The Grand Ballroom of The Maddox Grand Hotel was a masterpiece of intimidation disguised as luxury. Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto the elite of Chicago, their diamonds glittering like shards of ice. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, Cuban cigars, and the metallic tang of power. I stood near the entrance, clutching my tablet like a shield, my heart rhythm wildly out of sync with the string quartet playing in the corner.
I had made my choice. The seating chart was finalized. Now, I was just waiting for the executioner's axe to fall.
It didn't take long.
Katerina Webb swept into the room like a bloodstain on a pristine canvas. Her crimson gown was slashed high up the thigh, a bold declaration of intent. She didn't mingle. Her eyes scanned the room, locked onto the head table, and then snapped to me with the precision of a predator spotting wounded prey.
She marched toward me, the crowd parting instinctively.
"You," she hissed, her voice low but carrying the sharp edge of a blade. She loomed over me, smelling of tuberose and entitlement. "Is this a joke? Or are you just incompetent?"
I straightened my spine, forcing a polite smile. "Good evening, Miss Webb. I assume you've found your seat at Table Three? It has an excellent view of the stage."
"Table Three?" Her laugh was brittle. "I belong at the head table. Beside Damien. Everyone knows my place in this family." She took a step closer, invading my personal space. "My father took a bullet for the previous Don. My blood paid for the very floor you're standing on. And you—some hired help—think you can shove me into the corner?"
"It is a VIP table, Miss Webb," I said, my voice steady despite the trembling in my hands. "The head table is reserved for immediate family and high-ranking leadership. It's a matter of protocol."
"Protocol?" She sneered, her voice rising, drawing the attention of the nearby guests. "I am more family than you will ever be. Fix it. Now. Or I will have Damien throw you out into the street before the first course is served."
The murmur of the crowd died down. I felt the weight of a hundred eyes on me, burning, judging. I opened my mouth to respond, to apologize, to de-escalate, but a voice cut through the tension like a whip crack.
"Is there a problem?"
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
I froze. Katerina spun around, her expression instantly morphing from rage to a seductive pout.
Damien Maddox sat at the center of the head table, looking like a dark god on his throne. He hadn't stood up. He hadn't raised his voice. He simply existed, and that was enough to command absolute silence. His cold, dark eyes were fixed on Katerina.
"Damien," Katerina purred, stepping toward him, her hand reaching out as if to touch his arm. "This incompetent girl has made a mistake with the seating. I was just telling her to—"
"The seating chart was approved by me," Damien said. His tone was flat, devoid of warmth, devoid of interest. He didn't look at her hand; he looked through her.
Katerina froze, her hand hovering in mid-air. "But... Damien, surely you didn't mean to put me with the Capos? I thought..."
"You thought wrong," he interrupted, his voice dropping to a lethal register that sent a shiver down my spine. "If the seat provided is beneath your dignity, Katerina, the exit is behind you."
The humiliation was absolute. A collective gasp rippled through the room. Katerina's face drained of color, her red lips parting in shock. She looked around, realizing she had become a spectacle, stripped of her self-proclaimed status in seconds.
"I..." She choked on her words, shooting a venomous glare at me before turning and retreating to Table Three, her head held high in a fragile attempt to salvage her pride.
Damien didn't watch her go. His gaze shifted, locking onto mine for a heartbeat. It wasn't a look of reassurance. It was a claim. A reminder that he controlled the board, and I was just another piece he had moved.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding, my knees weak. He had defended the decision, but the violence of his authority left me terrified.
I watched as he turned back to the man seated beside him—Irvin Pope, the Underboss. Irvin, handsome in a rugged, dangerous way, leaned in close to Damien, whispering something. His eyes, sharp and calculating, flicked toward me across the room.
Damien's jaw tightened. The veins in his neck strained against his collar, and a flash of raw, unbridled anger darkened his face. He snapped a short response to Irvin, his hand clenching into a fist on the white tablecloth.
My stomach twisted. Irvin was questioning him. He was asking why the Don had just publicly shamed a woman with family ties for the sake of a PR consultant. I had caused a rift. I had made myself a problem.
And in the mafia, problems were eliminated.
