Chapter 3 - THE PLAZA GALA
The Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was a sea of crystal chandeliers, flowing champagne, and expensive silk gowns.
String quartets played softly from the elevated balcony as New York’s elite mingled under the warm golden glow of the chandeliers, completely unaware of the storm gathering outside the heavy oak doors.
At the center of the dais stood Julian Moretti, thirty-two years old, impeccably tailored in a bespoke midnight-blue tuxedo, holding a crystal champagne flute as he delivered a speech about charity, family legacy, and the bright future of the Moretti Foundation.
“...and so, as we look to the future of our family and our community,” Julian smiled warmly, raising his glass to the applauding crowd, “we reaffirm our commitment to protecting the most vulnerable among us. Because nothing is more important than family.”
CLAP. CLAP. CLAP.
The applause rippled through the room.
Then, a heavy, rhythmic sound echoed from the main entrance of the ballroom.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The double doors didn't just open—they slammed backward against the interior walls with a deafening crash.
The string quartet stopped mid-note. The applause died instantly. Three hundred pairs of eyes turned toward the entrance.
There stood Gabriel Moretti.
He walked alone down the center aisle, his long black overcoat unbuttoned, his silver-touched hair damp from the rain outside, his eyes fixed with absolute, unblinking lethality on the man standing on the stage. Behind him, four armed men in black tactical suits silently sealed the exits, their hands resting on their sidearms.
Whispers erupted through the crowd like static electricity.
“Is that... Gabriel Moretti?” “What is he doing here? Where is his son?” “Look at his face... dear God.”
Julian froze mid-sentence, his champagne glass hovering halfway to his mouth. For a brief second, his composure fractured, a flicker of raw panic flashing across his polished features. But he quickly recovered, forcing a brotherly, concerned smile onto his face as he walked down the steps of the dais.
“Gabriel!” Julian called out, spreading his arms. “What a surprise! We heard about Daniel falling ill, we’ve all been so worried—is he alright? Why didn't you let us know—”
Julian never finished the sentence.
Gabriel crossed the remaining ten feet of the ballroom in three long strides and delivered a punch so fast and devastating that the crack of bone echoed off the crystal chandeliers.
Julian flew backward, crashing hard onto the polished marble floor, his champagne glass shattering into a thousand glittering pieces around him. Blood poured instantly from his broken nose, staining his pristine white shirt.
Gasps echoed through the ballroom. Several society women covered their mouths in horror.
“Gabriel! Have you lost your mind?!” a prominent city councilman shouted from the front row, stepping forward before Vincent Kane casually stepped into his path, resting his hand on his Glock holster with a cold, silent stare that made the councilman step back twice as fast.
Julian groaned, rolling onto his side, clutching his bleeding nose. He looked up at Gabriel with venomous fury, dropping the mask of innocence entirely.
“You... you lunatic!” Julian spat, wiping blood from his lip. “You attack your own brother in front of half of Manhattan? Have you finally lost your grip?”
Gabriel didn't yell. He crouched down slowly, grabbing Julian by the silk lapels of his expensive tuxedo and hauling him up until their faces were inches apart. The air around Gabriel felt like liquid nitrogen.
“Five million dollars, Julian,” Gabriel whispered, his voice carrying clearly across the silent ballroom. “Wired to Marcus Vance’s offshore account. To kill my son.”
Julian’s face went chalk-white. The defiance in his eyes evaporated, replaced by cold, hard terror.
“I... I don't know what you’re talking about,” Julian stammered, his voice cracking. “You’re paranoid! You’re seeing enemies everywhere—!”
“Marcus Vance was picked up by my men ten minutes ago at a private airstrip in Teterboro,” Gabriel lied smoothly, watching every micro-expression on his brother’s face. “He sang before his bags were even checked. He told us about the wire transfer. He told us about your plan to sell the Brooklyn shipping lanes to the Russians once Daniel was gone.”
Julian stared at him, realizing the game was over. The cold, ambitious coward beneath the tailored suit finally broke through.
“You were getting weak, Gabriel!” Julian suddenly hissed, his voice rising in desperate defiance as he tried to claw at Gabriel’s wrists. “You let sentimentality soften us! You cared more about a sick child than the empire our father built! I did what had to be done to save the family!”
The admission hung in the ballroom like a death sentence.
Every guest in the room now knew. Every witness had heard it. There was no going back, no legal defense, no family amnesty.
Gabriel looked down at his brother with a mixture of profound disgust and cold detachment. He released Julian’s lapels, letting him drop back onto the marble floor like a piece of garbage.
Gabriel stood up, straightening his cuffs. He looked at Vincent.
“Take him to the basement warehouse on Eleventh Avenue,” Gabriel ordered flatly. “Leave him there. Let him think about family legacy for the next twenty-four hours. Tomorrow, we dispose of him permanently.”
“No—wait! Gabriel, please! I’m your brother!” Julian screamed, scrambling backward across the floor as two tactical guards hoisted him up by his arms, dragging him out through the service exit as his expensive shoes left streaks of blood across the white marble.
The ballroom was dead silent. Nobody moved. Nobody breathed.
May you like
Gabriel turned slowly, scanning the terrified faces of New York’s elite, before his eyes locked onto the double doors.
He didn't say goodbye. He just walked out.
