Chapter 9 - The Gala Preparation
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The discovery of the Falcone breach accelerated everything.
Leandro decided to host a massive charity gala at the estate the following weekend. On paper, it was a fundraiser for the children’s hospital. In reality, it was a strategic trap designed to lure the Falcone lieutenants into his territory, where he could confront them about the smuggled cargo.
Nevaeh was put in charge of the entire event. She coordinated the caterers, managed the guest list, and oversaw the security layout with Marco.
She worked sixteen-hour days, moving through the estate like a force of nature. Leandro found himself seeking her out just to watch her work. He admired the way her plus-size curves filled out her tailored suits, the way she effortlessly commanded the respect of his hardened security men, the way her laughter echoed in the kitchen.
She was breathing life into a house that had felt like a tomb for decades.
Three days before the gala, Stella cornered Nevaeh in the grand hallway.
“You think you’re so smart, don't you?” Stella hissed, glaring at Nevaeh’s clipboard. “You think because Leandro looks at you like a piece of meat, you actually belong here?”
“I know exactly where I belong, Stella,” Nevaeh replied calmly.
“You’re going to be serving champagne at the gala, just like you used to,” Stella sneered. “I told the event coordinator to put you in a staff uniform for the night. Know your place, trash.”
Nevaeh didn't argue. She simply nodded and walked away.
That evening, Leandro found Nevaeh in the study, reviewing the seating chart.
“Stella mentioned you assigned yourself to the catering staff for Saturday,” Leandro said, frowning deeply.
“It keeps the peace,” Nevaeh replied without looking up. “She needs to feel superior, and I need to monitor the floor. It’s practical.”
Leandro walked over and placed his large hand flat over the seating chart, forcing her to stop and look at him.
“You are not serving anyone in this house,” Leandro said, his voice a dark, possessive rumble. “You are not staff for the night. You are attending the gala.”
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“Leandro, I don't even have a dress—”
“I will handle the dress,” he promised, his eyes burning into hers. “You are going to walk into that ballroom on my arm. And you are going to show every single person in this city exactly who you are.”
