Elena Moretti POV:
The convoy of armored black SUVs pulled to a sharp halt in front of the NASDAQ building in Manhattan.
The second the tires stopped moving, the street exploded with blinding white light. Hundreds of financial journalists, paparazzi, and Wall Street analysts surged forward, their camera flashes turning the gloomy morning into artificial daylight.
Dante's heavily armed security detail piled out first. They formed a human wall, physically shoving the screaming reporters back to create a clear path.
Dante stepped out of the car. He ignored the cameras. He turned back, reached his large hand into the dark cabin, and offered it to me.
I placed my hand in his and stepped out onto the pavement. I wore a pristine, white haute couture suit with sharp shoulders, paired with blood-red stiletto heels. My posture was rigid, my chin held high. The sheer, overwhelming aura of dominance I projected immediately silenced the reporters closest to me.
We walked through the glass doors and onto the trading floor.
The room was a chaotic hive of energy. Giant electronic screens wrapped around the walls, flashing red and green numbers at a dizzying speed. The air hummed with tension.
The CEO of NASDAQ and his top executives rushed forward to greet us. They bowed slightly, their eyes wide with a mix of awe and fear. They guided me toward the raised platform in the center of the room. The bell podium.
Dante stopped at the bottom of the stairs. He let go of my hand and stepped back into the shadows beneath the screens. He was the king of the underworld, but today, he was willingly fading into the background so I could stand in the absolute center of the sun.
I walked up the steps and stood behind the podium. There were three minutes until the market opened.
I looked down at the sea of Wall Street elites in their expensive suits. They were all staring up at me, waiting for my signal.
A sudden, sharp memory hit me. Ten years ago, I had been wandering the alleys of this very city, hiding from assassins, digging through a dumpster behind a diner just to find half a stale bagel to survive.
My fingers gripped the edges of the podium. A dark, vicious thrill rushed through my veins. Look at me now.
"Ten seconds!" the floor manager yelled.
The crowd began to chant. "Ten! Nine! Eight!"
The roar of the crowd vibrated through the floorboards, traveling up my legs. It sounded like a cult welcoming the birth of a new god.
"Three! Two! One!"
I slammed my hand down on the electronic button.
The sharp, piercing ring of the opening bell blasted through the speakers, broadcasting live to every financial terminal on the planet.
The massive screen behind me flashed green. The Moretti Group stock ticker appeared. The numbers began to spin like a slot machine. The price skyrocketed.
Within five minutes of the bell ringing, the market capitalization smashed through the one hundred billion dollar ceiling. We had just broken the NASDAQ record for the highest first-day trading volume in a decade.
The trading floor exploded. Executives screamed in triumph. Waiters popped bottles of vintage champagne, the corks flying into the air, the foam spraying wildly over tailored suits and expensive monitors.
Gold and silver confetti rained down from the ceiling.
I stood perfectly still amidst the chaos. My face was calm. I stared at the astronomical number glowing on the screen. It wasn't just money. It was the ultimate cleansing. Decades of mafia blood money, extortion, and violence had just been legally washed clean. We were now an untouchable, legitimate financial empire.
I turned my head and looked down into the shadows. Dante was leaning against a marble pillar. He wasn't looking at the screen. He was looking at me, his eyes burning with a fanatical, religious reverence.
The ceremony ended. Surrounded by a phalanx of guards, we walked out of the building and headed toward Times Square.
As we stepped onto the crowded pavement of the square, a strange noise rippled through the massive crowd. Thousands of tourists and New Yorkers suddenly stopped walking. They all tilted their heads up.
I followed their gaze.
Every single giant LED billboard in Times Square—the screens usually flashing ads for Coca-Cola, luxury cars, and Broadway shows—suddenly glitched.
They all went pitch black at the exact same second.
A collective gasp echoed through the square. Then, all fifty screens lit up simultaneously. There were no ads. There was only a massive, high-definition, slow-motion video of my face. It was the exact moment I pressed the bell, my eyes sharp and victorious.
Beneath my face, glowing in massive white letters across every screen in the square, was a single sentence:
*To my Queen, the world belongs to you.*
Social media erupted instantly. Thousands of people whipped out their phones, recording the insane, billionaire-level display of dominance and romance.
I stopped dead in my tracks. My breath caught in my throat. My heart hammered against my ribs as I stared at the sky filled with my own image.
Dante stepped up behind me. He wrapped his arms tightly around my waist and rested his chin heavily on my shoulder. He didn't care about the thousands of eyes staring at us.
"Just a little firework for your coronation," he whispered in my ear, his voice dark and smug.
A few ambitious paparazzi tried to break through the crowd to snap a photo of us. Dante's guards moved like lightning, snatching the cameras from their hands and crushing the lenses under their boots.
I turned around in Dante's arms. I looked up into his beautiful, dangerous face. Right there, in the exact center of Times Square, under the gaze of the entire world, I grabbed the lapels of his suit and pulled his mouth down to mine.
I kissed him fiercely, a public declaration of absolute ownership.
The guards quickly formed a circle, shielding us as we climbed into the back of the waiting Rolls-Royce. The heavy doors slammed shut, instantly cutting off the screaming crowd.
I leaned back against the leather seat, trying to catch my breath. The tinted window rolled up. I pulled my phone from my purse to check the stock updates.
An email notification popped up. The sender address belonged to the Dean of Columbia University.
I opened the email, my lips curving up: "Columbia University... heh, it's been a long time."
