Chapter 12 - Champagne and Razor Blades
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At seven o'clock, two hundred of New England’s most powerful citizens stood gathered beneath the vaulted gold leaf ceiling of the Bellavista ballroom. Federal judges mingled with shipping magnates, bank presidents, and state senators, flutes of vintage Dom Pérignon sparkling in their hands.
Near the center of the marble floor stood Senator Arthur Morrow, a silver-haired politician with a booming baritone laugh, holding court beside a tall, sleek man in a double-breasted charcoal tuxedo whom Dominic had purposefully allowed past the front gate tonight: Julian Cross, head of the New York docks syndicate and secret proprietor of Crestline Harbor Holdings.
When Dominic descended the grand staircase with Vivien on his arm, applause rippled across the ballroom. To anyone watching from the floor, they looked like the ultimate dynasty—the ruthless, handsome king of the Atlantic ports and the dazzling senator’s daughter who had finally tamed him.
At the base of the stairs, near the floral-draped dais, sat Isabella Varelli in her wheelchair, dressed in a regal charcoal velvet gown with a diamond brooch at her collar. Behind her chair stood Marin in midnight blue, her hands resting lightly on the handles.
"Look at your mother tonight, Dominic," Senator Morrow boomed warmly as they approached the dais, clapping a heavy hand onto Dominic’s shoulder while shooting a quick, triumphant glance toward Julian Cross. "Why, she looks ten years younger under these lights! It must be the joy of seeing her only son finally settle down and share the burden of those shipping terminals."
"My mother has had a remarkable recovery over the last twenty-four hours, Senator," Dominic replied smoothly, his dark eyes shifting from Morrow’s flushed face to Julian Cross. "Wait until you hear what she has to say."
Julian Cross raised his champagne flute slightly, a smug, predatory smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. Cross believed that by Monday morning, with Isabella dead of a "second stroke" and Vivien holding power of attorney over the newly merged Varelli-Morrow marital trust, the deep-water berths in Providence and Newport would be leased to New York at ten cents on the dollar.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" Senator Morrow called out, tapping his crystal glass with a silver spoon until the string quartet faded and the chatter across the ballroom hushed into expectant silence. "If I may have your attention for a moment!"
Two hundred faces turned toward the dais. Press photographers hired by the Morrow campaign raised their cameras at the edge of the velvet rope.
"Tonight is about more than just the union of two people," Senator Morrow announced, spreading his arms wide. "It is about the union of two great Rhode Island legacies—bringing transparency, leadership, and new partners into the Varelli maritime empire. And before Dominic and Vivien cut the cake, Vivien tells me that our beloved matriarch, Isabella Varelli, wishes to offer her formal family blessing through her devoted nurse."
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Vivien beamed under the camera flashes, stepping gracefully over to Isabella’s wheelchair and bending down to kiss the older woman’s cheek for the photographers.
"Come forward, Marin, dear," Vivien said brightly into the lapel microphone, her eyes flashing a silent, lethal warning that only Marin could see. "Tell Dominic and all of our guests what Mrs. Varelli told me yesterday afternoon in her room about our marriage."
