Chapter 31: "Borgata’s Favorite Celebrity"
The Grand Heritage Hotel. Leone District.
12:55 PM, Sunday.
The entire hotel glittered with obscene wealth.
Crystal light spilled across polished marble floors.
White-gloved servants drifted through the crowd, carrying silver trays filled with champagne and delicate entrées.
Near the entrance carpets, reporters and photographers clustered, camera flashes already bursting every few seconds.
Beyond them, Borgata’s elite women floated through the entrance hall wrapped in couture and diamonds.
From the second-floor balcony overlooking it all, Chiara Leone watched the gathering with the calm satisfaction of a queen surveying a court.
The silver gown molded to her body so perfectly it looked sculpted rather than sewn.
Thousands of crystals stitched into the fabric caught the chandelier light with every subtle movement she made.
Her blonde hair cascaded over one shoulder in soft waves, designed to look effortless despite costing a small fortune.
Beside her stood Corinna Leone.
At a glance, the resemblance between the sisters was almost unnerving: the same blonde hair, the same sharp bones, the same beautiful features sharpened by Leone blood and money.
But where Chiara radiated polished social power, Corinna carried something rougher beneath the glamour.
Younger.
Meaner.
Less refined.
Her cream-colored gown softened none of it.
One hand lazily balanced a champagne flute while she glared down the staircase with open suspicion.
"Chiara, you’re completely insane," Corinna complained. "Do I really have to roll down those stairs? They’re viciously tall. I’m either going to snap an ankle, rip this dress, or smash my face into the floor."
Chiara turned her head toward her younger sister with a sweet, patient smile.
"If not you performing the little stunt, Corinna dear, then perhaps I should throw myself down the staircase instead?"
Corinna’s entire attitude folded at once.
"Of course not you, sister," she muttered with a pout. "You would probably sue the staircase afterward."
Chiara burst into delighted laughter.
"There she is. My loving sister."
She wrapped one arm around Corinna’s shoulders and patted her affectionately.
"Now stop looking miserable. Didn’t I promise you the new Orlov bag? Limited edition, darling."
Corinna narrowed her eyes, suspicious despite herself.
"Just remember your promise."
"Corinna dear," Chiara purred, "have I ever failed to keep my word?"
Chiara’s voice remained sugary sweet for exactly two seconds before her entire expression changed.
The warmth in her face sharpened, her smile thinning until it became something colder and much more dangerous.
"Remember," Chiara said quietly, "I want you to insult that bitch thoroughly. Loud enough for every woman in this hall to hear it."
Corinna’s mouth curved immediately into a vicious little smirk.
"Please," she scoffed. "That’s practically a talent of mine. But before that... aren’t you planning to greet your little friend first?"
Corinna’s gaze shifted toward the entrance hall below.
A woman with dramatic ginger hair stood there, near the reporters, directing cameramen around as if she owned every lens in the building.
Her gown looked expensive in the way only fashion people appreciated, sculptural enough to belong only inside a magazine.
Lucilla Bellini.
Chiara laughed instantly.
"I was only about to. Let’s go greet our dear Lucilla."
Together, the Leone sisters descended the staircase.
Several guests turned to stare as they crossed the entrance hall, the entire room already responding to Chiara before she even opened her mouth.
"Well now," Chiara greeted warmly as she approached Lucilla, "look who finally decided to attend. I was beginning to think you intended to reject my invitation entirely."
The moment Lucilla heard Chiara’s voice behind her, her shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly.
Truthfully, Lucilla had already prepared a flawless excuse not to attend.
A sudden luxury vacation abroad.
Very elegant, believable, and impossible to dispute publicly.
That plan had died the moment Jeremiah Castellano decided to launch a nationwide media campaign through her own outlets, announcing Ariana Lombardi’s involvement with the Castellano Fight Club.
Now, there was no force on earth capable of keeping Lucilla Bellini away from attending this luncheon.
By the time she turned toward Chiara, a flawless smile already rested on her face.
"How could I possibly miss such an important event hosted by the Leone heiress herself?"
Chiara chuckled softly.
"Oh dear. I’m flattered."
Her eyes gleamed with dangerous amusement.
"Though... are you sure you aren’t here because Jeremiah Castellano suddenly adopted Ariana Lombardi into his little fight club?"
Lucilla held her smile perfectly in place.
"How little you think of me," she said with a dramatic sigh. "I’m here purely because I intend to witness what will undoubtedly become Borgata’s favorite gossip story by tomorrow morning."
Chiara laughed with her.
"Then you are absolutely in the right place."
Lucilla merely smirked.
Whatever event involved Chiara Leone inevitably ended in blood.
Social blood, perhaps.
But blood nonetheless.
And Lucilla owned enough media outlets to turn humiliation into national entertainment before sunrise.
Her gaze then shifted toward the far corner of the entrance hall.
"...Though," she murmured curiously, "why is that one here?"
Chiara and Corinna followed her line of sight.
Natalia Porto stood near one of the marble pillars, a drink in one hand.
Her posture was calm, yet her eyes were sharp. Unlike nearly every other woman in the room, she stood entirely alone, and no one seemed eager to approach her.
Lucilla narrowed her eyes thoughtfully.
"Am I mistaken," she mused aloud, "or didn’t she say very firmly she would not be attending?"
Chiara burst into laughter loud enough to turn nearby heads.
"Apparently, life still enjoys surprising me."
The words had barely left her mouth when commotion erupted outside the hotel entrance.
Camera flashes exploded violently across the doorway.
Reporters shouting over one another.
Every head in the entrance hall turned toward the grand front doors.
Ariana Lombardi had arrived.
Or rather, Aren had.
She stood alone at the far end of the entrance carpet, hands folded neatly in front of her.
The dress she wore today was one Caio had purchased during their shopping trip.
High neckline.
Long sleeves.
Almost no skin visible.
Deep blue velvety fabric wrapped elegantly around her figure, while embroidered flowers accented the curve of her waist.
Against the platinum bob framing her face, the dress made her look almost unreal beneath the relentless flashes of camera light.
The hotel descended into chaos almost immediately.
A swarm of photographers surged forward, their desperation driving them into a frenzy. Questions fired from every direction before Aren had fully crossed the doorway.
"Ariana!"
"Lady Ariana, over here!"
"Look this way!"
"Lady Ariana, how do you feel about fighting men inside Castellano Club?"
"Are the rumors about your relationship with Jeremiah Castellano true?"
"Ariana, why did you suddenly stop posting on social media?"
"There are rumors you’re involved in a fetish relationship with banking tycoon Isidore Accardi!"
"Ariana! What about your addiction rumors—"
Aren’s eyes moved slowly across the sea of shouting strangers.
’Oh. This is considerably more people than the Summit.’
’They all seem deeply invested in Ariana Lombardi.’
Unfortunately, she had absolutely no idea how to answer any of the questions.
Instead, she quietly memorized every single one.
’Ask Don Caio about Ariana’s addiction history.’
’Ask Don Caio what social media means.’
’Ask Don Caio what fetish relationship means.’
The moment Aren stepped fully into the entrance hall, Chiara Leone approached her with Lucilla Bellini beside her.
Aren recognized both faces instantly from her Summit intelligence.
Lucilla Bellini, of House Bellini, was publicly known as an art curator and the creative director behind multiple media companies.
In reality, House Bellini’s media empire provided an ideal smokescreen for international art theft.
Compared to the blonde woman beside her, however, Lucilla was practically a white-collar criminal.
Chiara Leone was far more dangerous.
Publicly, House Leone operated international labor agencies, with Chiara herself serving as chief director.
Privately, those agencies functioned as a polished pipeline for human trafficking.
Chiara reached Aren first, gracious warmth in her smile.
"My, my," she cooed, "you have no idea how delighted I was when I heard you’d accepted my invitation, Ariana."
Lucilla smiled as well, more elegantly than sincerely.
"You’ve been well, Ariana dear?"
Her gaze moved carefully across Aren’s profile.
"Lovely haircut, by the way. Very modern. Very sexy. It suits your new... image."
Aren nodded politely.
"Ah. Thank you very much. It’s very practical."
She touched the edge of her platinum bob lightly.
"It also saves shampoo."
Lucilla’s smile tightened, almost invisibly.
Chiara, meanwhile, looked thoroughly entertained.
"Look how charming you’ve become lately," she laughed. "Come inside. Everyone’s been waiting only for you."
At that exact moment, Corinna Leone approached from the side.
Unlike her sister, Corinna made no effort whatsoever to appear welcoming.
"Well," she drawled, loud enough for every nearby reporter to hear, "if it isn’t Borgata’s favorite celebrity."
