The billionaire gang

The New York City skyline lustered like a constellation of terrestrial stars, each spangling points a testament to ambition, power, and the grim pursuit of further. From her extension suite in the Upper East Side, Aria Kingsley peered out over the civic geography, her reflection superimposed on the megacity lights. At twenty- seven, she was the heir at law apparent to Kingsley Capital, one of Wall Street's most fabled barricade finances. Yet, as she smoothed down her Givenchy gown a jacket of night blue, as dark and deep as her family's secrets she felt less like a fiscal sensation and more like an internee in a bejeweled pen. " Miss Kingsley?" Her particular adjunct, Olivia, appeared in the doorway, clipboard in hand." The auto is ready. Your father wants you at the Met no latterly than seven- thirty." Aria jounced, her aspect moping on the cityscape. Manhattan, a chessboard where her family had been playing a high- stakes game for nearly a century." Did he mention who differently will be attending?" Olivia dithered, a tell that spoke volumes." The usual suspects from the finance world. Oh, and. the Moretti’s verified." A jolt ran through Aria, an admixture of dread and commodity additional commodity she dared not name. The Moretti family, headed by their investment bank, Moretti & Sons, had been the Kingsley’s' most bitter rivals for generations. What had started as road warfare between Irish and Italian emigrant gangs in the 1920s had evolved into a commercial blood feud, with Wall Street as their battlefield. " Of course they did," Aria muttered." It wouldn't be a proper New York fete without a bit of bad blood, would it?" She turned from the window, the megacity’s gleam casting her in figure. In that moment, framed against the skyline her ancestors had helped shape, Aria looked every inch the Wall Street queen beautiful, untouchable, and veritably much alone. The trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art was a silent affair, pointed only by the soft gates of Aria's fritters on her tablet. She was reviewing daily protrusions, searching for any edge in the ongoing fiscal chess match against the Moretti. Her father, Victor Kingsley, had erected his career on aggressive, frequently controversial moves." In finance," he would tell her from a youthful age," you're either the wolf or the lamb." The Kingsley’s had been wolves for a veritably long time. As they pulled up to the Met's grand entrance, a red carpet stretched out like a sanguine swash, reflecting camera flashes. Aria took a deep breath. These events, while presumably for charity, were in reality elaborate theater a stage where New York's elite performed their status, alliances, and jaundice for an ever-vigilant followership. She stepped out into a storm of photography, her appearance heralded by a chorus of" Miss Kingsley! Over then!" and" Aria, who are you wearing?" She navigated the crucible with rehearsed grace, offering precisely curated sound bites " Yes, it's Givenchy. The work being done by the Children's Hospital is so important. Kingsley Capital is proud to support enterprise that invest in our megacity's future." Inside, the gallery's grand hall had been converted into a spangling chamber. The megacity's flush mingled beneath priceless art, agitating million- bone deals with the same indifference others might reserve for rainfall converse. Aria moved through the crowd, swapping air kisses and calculated amenities. " Aria, darling!" Monique van der Waal, a Dutch oil painting descendant, gestured her over." I was just telling Harrison about your fund's spectacular performance last quarter." Harrison Ashford, British tech Napoleon, raised his champagne flute." Indeed. Quite the aggressive expansion into arising requests. Your father's boldness, I presume?" " Victor's influence is inarguable," Aria smiled, the expression not relatively reaching her eyes." But I like to suppose I have added a many. advances to our strategy." " Speaking of strategic moves," Monique leaned in, her voice dropping," I hear the Moretti boy is then. Dominic. First public appearance since that nasty business with the SEC." Aria's grip on her clutch tensed gradually. Dominic Moretti, at thirty- two, was formerly being prepped to take over as CEO of Moretti & Sons. His recent encounter with the Securities and Exchange Commission allegations of bigwig trading, still settled out of court had only added a bad boy luster to his character. " I am sure Mr. Moretti is more concerned with rebuilding trust than with." Aria's response was cut short as she turned and set up herself gaping directly into a brace of deep brown eyes. Time sounded to decelerate. The fete 's ambient noise horselaugh, c******g spectacles, particles of discussion faded to a distant hum. Dominic Moretti stood just bases down, his aspect locked with hers. He was everything the tabloids painted him to be altitudinous, with the kind of rugged handsomeness that spoke of his family's Sicilian roots. His black tie, perfectly acclimatized, suggested at a physicality generally hidden in boardrooms. A faint scar above his left eyebrow added a touch of peril to his else polished appearance. Yet, it was his eyes that arrested Aria. Dark, violent, they sounded to peel back her precisely constructed façade, seeing not the Kingsley descendant but commodity deeper commodity she scarcely conceded herself. In that suspended moment, a current passed between them, electric and inarguable. also, like a record scrape, reality reasserted itself. Victor Kingsley's commanding voice cut through the noise " Dominic! I see the SEC hasn't dampened your taste for high society." Aria's father, at fifty-eight, remained an imposing figure. His swab and pepper hair and acclimatized Brioni suit projected an image of distinguished power, but those who knew him honored the road fighter beneath the noble surface. Dominic's lips coiled into a half smile that was equal corridor charm and challenge." Victor. Why change what works? I learned from the stylish, after all. Your creative account in the'90s is still tutored in some circles." A ripple of pressure spread through the near guests. Victor's once solecisms were infrequently mentioned so openly. But before he could retort, Isabella Moretti glided into the fray. At forty five, Dominic's mama was a vision in Valentino sanguine a color choice that, in this environment, felt like a protestation of war. As CFO of Moretti & Sons, she was known for fiscal pushes as elegant as they were ruthless. " Victor, darling," her tone made the endearment a armament," still using tired old smears? I'd hoped you'd have set up some new material. Come, Dominic. I see people worth our time." As the Morettis moved down, Aria touched her father's arm, feeling the pressure. His voice was low, meant for her cognizance only" no way forget, pic cola. In their modes runs the blood of Cosa Nostra. Before they were bankers, they were bumblers." Aria jounced, the weight of generations pressing down. The Kingsleys and Morettis her mind flashed back to the family histories she would been tutored since nonage. In the 1920s, in New York's churning emigrant jug, two groups sculpted out homes. From Hell's Kitchen, Billy" The Boot" Kingsley led his Irish gang, smuggling whiskey through the jetties. Across city, in Little Italy, Salvatore Moretti's crew controlled the neighborhood's" protection" discordances. Their conflict came to a head one sweltering August night in 1929, when both tried to commandeer the same Wall Street- bound truck