Chapter 5 - MASQUERADE OF BLOOD
The Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel glittered beneath crystal chandeliers, a monument to high-society decadence. Hundreds of New York’s elite—senators, Wall Street executives, foreign dignitaries, and socialites—sipped vintage champagne, completely oblivious to the heavily armed private security operatives stationed at every exit, disguised in tailored tuxedos with earpieces hidden behind their collars.
At the center of the room stood Adrian Whitmore. He looked impeccable in a midnight-blue tuxedo, holding court with a smug, predatory grin. Beside him stood his brother, Marcus, his arm in a sling and bandages covering half his neck from the crash, his eyes scanning the crowd with manic, bloodthirsty intensity.
Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the ballroom swung open.
The chamber fell dead silent. The string quartet stopped mid-measure.
Natalie Carter walked into the lion's den.
She was breathtaking, an ethereal vision of lethal elegance. She wore a backless, crimson silk gown that hugged her curves like a second skin, the fabric slit high along her left thigh. Around her throat sat a collar of black diamonds—Damian’s personal gift—and her dark hair was swept up, revealing a neckline unmarred by fear. There was no terror in her stride; she walked with the regal, terrifying grace of a queen marching toward a conquered throne.
Adrian’s breath caught in his throat. For a second, his calculated facade cracked, replaced by pure, possessive lust. He stepped forward, opening his arms with theatrical warmth.
"Natalie," he said loudly enough for the surrounding socialites to hear. "My darling. You’ve come to your senses."
Natalie stopped three feet from him. She didn't flinch as two armed guards closed the space behind her. "Where is Clara, Adrian?"
Adrian smiled thinly, stepping closer and lowering his voice to a hiss. "She’s in an ambulance idling in the private underground garage below the hotel, hooked to a respirator. You sign the full transfer of your father’s Port Authority archives to my corporate trust, hand over the decryption key to Leo's drive, and Clara lives to see tomorrow. Try to play games, and my men cut her oxygen supply before you can scream."
"The drive is useless without me," Natalie replied, her hazel eyes locking onto his with chilling calm. "And you will never touch Leo again."
Marcus stepped up beside his brother, his uninjured hand twitching near his jacket lapel. "Where is Cross, you little bitch? Did your mobster boyfriend abandon you when he realized you weren't worth dying for?"
"Damian Cross doesn't abandon what belongs to him," Natalie whispered smoothly.
At that exact second, every crystal chandelier in the Grand Ballroom went pitch black.
Screams of pure panic ripped through the darkness as high-society women and billionaire executives scattered. Emergency red sirens began flashing across the walls, casting the ballroom in a hellish, blood-colored glow.
BOOM.
A concussive shockwave ripped through the service elevator doors at the back of the room. Smoke poured into the ballroom as four Cross strike teams in tactical gear breached the perimeter, deploying high-intensity flashbangs that blinded Whitmore’s private security.
"Kill her!" Marcus screamed through the chaos, drawing his weapon. "Shoot her now!"
Before Marcus could raise his barrel, a shadowy figure emerged from the smoke behind the VIP staging area.
Damian Cross moved like a wraith. He caught Marcus’s uninjured arm, twisting the bone until a sickening crack echoed over the gunfire. Marcus shrieked in agony as Damian slammed his head into a marble pillar, dropping him unconscious to the floor.
Adrian pulled a pearl-handled revolver from his pocket, aiming directly at Natalie’s chest. "If I go down, you die with me, Natalie!"
Natalie didn't wait to be saved.
Fuelled by eighteen months of abuse, terror, and suppressed fury, Natalie lunged forward. She grabbed a heavy, crystal champagne bucket from a nearby ice sculpture stand and swung it with all her strength into Adrian’s face.
The impact shattered his nose in an explosion of blood. Adrian stumbled backward, howling in pain, dropping the revolver as he crashed into a banquet table, scattering shattered china and food across the floor.
Damian was beside her instantly, his heavy arm wrapping around Natalie’s waist, pulling her behind his armored chest as his men suppressed the remaining guards with surgical precision.
Damian looked down at Adrian, who was crawling backward through the broken glass, spitting blood and clutching his smashed face.
"You should have stayed on Wall Street, Adrian," Damian said, his voice ringing across the ruined ballroom like a death knell. "You aren't cut out for the underworld."
"You're too late, Cross!" Adrian choked out, laughing hysterically through his bloody teeth. "My men in the garage... they’ve already killed her aunt! And the FBI has your docks surrounded! You’re finished! Both of you!"
Damian’s phone chimed in his pocket. He brought it to his ear, listening for two seconds.
"Viktor," Damian said into the phone. "Is the woman secure?"
Viktor’s voice came through loud and clear on speakerphone: “Aunt Clara is safe inside our armored ambulance, Boss. All four Whitmore guards in the garage have been neutralized. She’s breathing fine and asking for Natalie.”
Adrian’s face drained of every drop of color. The arrogant billionaire dissolved into a whimpering, pathetic shell of a man.
"No... no, that's impossible..." Adrian stammered.
"Nothing is impossible when you betray the Cross family," Damian said coldly. He turned to Marco. "Hand him over to the federal agents waiting outside. The media has already received the decrypted files from the drive. Every news outlet in the Western Hemisphere is broadcasting Adrian and Marcus Whitmore’s offshore drug accounts and murder logs as we speak."
Damian looked down at Natalie. Her crimson dress was torn, her breathing was ragged, but her eyes were shining with a brilliant, victorious fire.
He offered his hand to her. "Shall we go home, Natalie?"
May you like
She placed her small, trembling hand into his massive palm, nodding softly. "Yes. Take me home."
They walked out of the ruined Plaza Hotel together, stepping over the shattered remnants of the Whitmore empire, walking past flashing police lights and blinding cameras, protected by an army of men who answered only to the King of New York.
