CHAPTER 118: THE EVENING SOIREE II

As they were about to step inside, Roman caught the subtle shift in the guards’ expressions.

Their bows had been polite, their tones respectful—but their eyes lingered on Julie.

It wasn’t the casual glance of strangers; there was a quiet curiosity in their gaze, as though they were waiting for him to speak.

He understood it instantly.

Seeing her beside him would naturally raise questions.

Roman Thompson rarely came here with company—especially not a woman.

For years, whenever he visited this place, he had arrived alone, his presence brisk and businesslike.

Tonight was different.

The guards’ attention on her was expectant, though not unkind.

It was as if they were silently wondering who she was, what her place in his world might be.

Roman’s lips curved faintly, not in amusement but in acknowledgment of their unspoken curiosity.

Without breaking stride, he placed a light hand at the small of Julie’s back, guiding her through the doorway with the same calm authority that always surrounded him.

The subtle gesture seemed to say, You don’t need to worry about questions—they already have their answer.

Julie, for her part, felt the weight of those glances, a flicker of self-consciousness passing through her.

But the warmth of Roman’s hand and the steady rhythm of his steps beside hers made it easier to lift her chin and keep walking.

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"Mrs. Thompson," Roman introduced without the slightest hesitation, his deep voice carrying the authority and certainty that always marked his presence.

He didn’t care in the least if anyone here knew his marriage had been private, or if whispers might spread.

The only thing that mattered to him was simple—Julie was his wife, and he was proud of her.

The two guards stiffened slightly, surprised by the introduction, but their reaction quickly shifted into respectful formality.

Straightening their posture, they bowed again, this time with even more sincerity.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Thompson," they said in unison, their voices resonating with a mixture of courtesy and genuine acknowledgment.

Julie’s lips curved into a warm, graceful smile. "Good afternoon to you too," she replied, her tone soft and melodious.

There was something soothing in her voice, something that felt as kind as her expression.

It wasn’t just polite—it was warm enough to leave an impression.

"It’s all good, Ma’am," they replied again together, their words carrying a touch of humility.

Julie gave them a small nod, her smile never fading. With an elegance that seemed to come naturally to her, she stepped forward, passing between them with Roman by her side.

His hand remained lightly at the small of her back, a subtle yet possessive gesture that did not go unnoticed.

Only when the couple’s footsteps had faded a few paces ahead did the two guards exchange glances.

Louis tilted his head slightly toward his brother, lowering his voice to a hushed murmur.

"Back then," he began, "we thought Mr. Thompson was kind... yet cold. The kind of man who might respond to our greetings sometimes, but not always."

His gaze shifted toward where Roman and Julie had disappeared beyond the doors. "But it seems his woman is even kinder than him."

Lurid gave a short, quiet chuckle and nodded in agreement. "Yes, of course," he said, his voice just as low. "He’s found himself a beautiful woman... and not just beautiful.

Kind. With a smile that..." He paused, as if the words felt almost too soft to say aloud, "...a smile that could make anyone feel welcome."

Louis smirked faintly, glancing at his brother. "Careful, or someone will think you’re smitten."

Lurid shook his head, though the corner of his mouth twitched. "Not smitten—just stating facts. You don’t see many like her in this place. Most people who come here carry themselves as if the air is theirs to breathe alone."

Louis’s gaze lingered on the path Roman and Julie had taken. "She’s different. I can see why he’s proud."

The two shared a silent agreement, returning to their upright stance as the grand Chinese doors slowly closed behind the couple.

Yet, in their minds, the image of Mrs. Thompson—her gentle smile, her unassuming grace—remained vivid, an impression neither of them would soon forget.

The heavy Chinese doors eased open, and the atmosphere inside seemed to hold its breath.

Roman stepped in first, his hand clasping Julie’s as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Side by side, they crossed the threshold into a room that shimmered with wealth and power.

It was an evening soirée unlike any ordinary gathering—here sat the kind of people whose names were whispered, not spoken.

At long tables draped in deep red silk, Mafia dons leaned back in their seats, diamond cufflinks glinting under golden chandeliers.

A queen from a distant European court sat draped in pale lavender silk, her crown subtle but undeniable.

A few seats away, a king in an embroidered black sherwani conversed with a prince from the Middle East, their bodyguards posted like statues at their backs.

The air was thick with cigar smoke and the faint perfume of roses and amber.

Soft jazz, played on a grand piano, wound through the low hum of conversations in multiple languages.

Roman’s entrance cut through it all.

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. His reputation walked ahead of him, slipping into the awareness of every person in the room before he’d even taken three steps.

Conversation lulled; a crystal glass paused halfway to a man’s lips. Faces turned—some in curiosity, others in recognition.

But tonight, it wasn’t only Roman who drew attention. The sight of Julie at his side sparked a different sort of reaction.

She moved with an elegance that belied the eyes fixed on her—chin lifted, shoulders back, her free hand relaxed at her side.

Her gown caught the light in soft waves, and every step she took seemed to belong in the room’s rhythm.

A few smiles tilted into intrigue. Others narrowed in calculation.

The dons’ wives—women in couture gowns and heirloom jewels—glanced from her to Roman and back again, trying to place her.

To their left, a man in an impeccable white dinner jacket leaned toward his companion and murmured, "That’s new."

Roman didn’t so much as glance at the onlookers.

His grip on Julie’s hand was sure, almost possessive, guiding her through the opulent crowd like a king returning to his court with his queen.

Each step carried an unspoken message: Look all you want—she is mine.

Julie felt the stares, the weight of curiosity and silent judgment, but the warmth of his palm in hers grounded her.

She let herself take in the scene—the gleam of cut crystal, the polished gold leaf on the columns, the faint scent of aged wine—and in that moment, she realized: she didn’t need to match the power in the room.

Roman’s presence alone made the ground she walked on unshakable.

As Roman and Julie moved deeper into the glittering hall, a subtle shift passed through the crowd.

Those seated began to straighten, as if unconsciously preparing themselves for acknowledgment.

It wasn’t protocol for guests to rise, but in this room, respect was an instinct you didn’t have to be told to show.

From the far end of the room, a tall man with silver hair and a perfectly tailored charcoal suit began to approach.

He moved with the quiet authority of someone who didn’t need to announce who he was.

People’s eyes followed him—some nodding respectfully, others stepping aside in his path.

This was Lorenzo Bellanti, the evening’s host—a man who had ruled the European underworld for decades, his influence threading through both royal courts and criminal councils alike.

Normally, Lorenzo never left his table to greet anyone.

Yet tonight, he crossed the room without hesitation.

"Mr. Thompson," he said, his deep voice carrying just enough volume to reach the surrounding tables.

His lips curved into a faint smile—not the kind worn for diplomacy, but the rare, genuine kind reserved for equals.

Roman’s own smile was subtle but unhurried as he inclined his head in greeting. " Mr. Bellanti."

The two men clasped hands briefly, a gesture that carried the weight of years of history, respect, and unspoken understandings.

"And this," Lorenzo said, turning his gaze to Julie, "must be the lady I’ve heard whispers about."

His eyes softened slightly as he took in her poise. Then, without a hint of condescension, he inclined his head to her—an acknowledgment as rare as it was sincere.

"Welcome, Mrs. Thompson. My hall is honored by your presence."

It seems Julie is all known and that is thanks to the Lurid and Louis at the door.

Julie felt the warmth in his tone and responded with a gentle smile. "Thank you, Mr. Bellanti."

Murmurs rippled quietly through the surrounding guests. Kings and dons exchanged glances; the queens’ eyes narrowed ever so slightly in quiet calculation.

It wasn’t lost on anyone that Lorenzo Bellanti—a man who had made emperors wait—had walked across the room to greet Roman Thompson personally... and shown such courtesy to the woman beside him.

Roman, unbothered by the stir his arrival had caused, only said, "It’s a fine gathering you have here."

Lorenzo’s mouth curved slightly. "It will be finer now. Your table has been prepared."

With a sweep of his hand, the host gestured toward the most prominent seat in the hall—a position at the long table’s center, directly beneath the grand chandelier, where only those of the highest standing were placed.

As Roman guided Julie forward, still hand in hand, the air seemed to shift again. This wasn’t just an entrance anymore—it was a statement.