She Was Invisible at the Charity Gala—Until the Mafia Boss's Jealousy Made Every Man Leave

The chandelier crystals caught the light like captured stars, scattering rainbow fragments across the Grand Bellamy ballroom. I stood near the service entrance, clipboard pressed against my chest, watching three hundred of New York's most powerful people pretend they cared about underprivileged youth while really just networking and showing off their wealth.
Five years. I'd been coordinating Dominic Ferrante's annual charity galas for five years, and not once had he looked at me as anything more than the woman who made sure his events ran flawlessly.
"Miss Chen, the champagne fountain on the east side needs refilling." Antonio, one of the catering staff, appeared at my elbow, slightly panicked.
"Already handled." I checked my tablet, confirming the timing. "New bottles are being brought up now. Tell Marco to position himself near table twelve—Senator Richardson's wife always gets handsy after her third glass, and we don't need another incident."
Antonio nodded gratefully and disappeared into the crowd. I returned my attention to the master checklist, systematically working through each item. Orchestra: on schedule. Auction items: properly displayed. Security: positioned correctly. Dominic's welcome speech: loaded on the teleprompter with the revised version he'd sent at eleven last night, because of course he had.
Everything was perfect. Everything was always perfect when I ran his events.
That's what I did—I made Dominic Ferrante's life run smoothly from the shadows, ensuring his legitimate business empire appeared exactly as polished and respectable as he needed it to be. The Ferrante Foundation's annual gala was the crown jewel of that carefully constructed image, raising millions for youth programs while letting New York's elite rub shoulders with one of the city's most powerful men.
What they didn't know—what most of them suspected but would never acknowledge—was that Dominic's fortune came from considerably less legitimate sources. Real estate development funded by money that had been laundered so many times it was practically pristine. Shipping contracts that involved cargo manifests with creative interpretations. Construction projects that somehow never faced union disputes or permit delays.
I'd figured it out within six months of starting as his event coordinator. The patterns were there if you knew where to look, and I'd always been good at seeing what others missed.
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The strange thing was, it didn't bother me the way it probably should have. Dominic Ferrante was dangerous, yes, but he was also surprisingly principled within his own moral framework. The youth programs his foundation funded were genuine. The scholarships were real. The community centers actually helped people.