Chapter 3 - A Silk Gown Drenched in Underworld Secrets
By Thursday morning, Sienna’s world had transformed into a gilded cage.
Stylists, seamstresses, and jewelers arrived at the Valente estate before dawn under Lucia’s strict direction. Sienna was scrubbed, polished, and draped in emerald silk that clung to her curves like liquid water. Around her neck sat a diamond choker valued at more than her father’s entire lifetime earnings.
“Tonight is the Winter Solstice Gala at the Drake Hotel,” Lucia said, adjusting Sienna’s diamond earrings in the mirror. “Every boss, every politician, every corrupt judge in the state will be there. Rocco Santoro will be watching for the slightest hesitation. If he senses fear, he strikes.”
“I’m terrified, Lucia,” Sienna admitted, staring at the glamorous stranger in the mirror.
“Fear is natural,” Lucia murmured softly. “Just let Dante carry the weight. Stand beside him, chin high. Remember: you are a Moretti. Sicilian blood runs in your veins too.”
When Sienna walked down the grand marble staircase, Dante was waiting at the bottom. He wore an impeccably tailored black tuxedo, his dark hair combed back. For a split second, when his eyes locked onto hers, his impenetrable mask slipped. A look of raw, predatory appreciation crossed his features before he smothered it under cold control.
“You look adequate,” he said, extending his arm.
“And you look almost human,” Sienna countered smoothly, taking his arm. The muscle beneath his jacket felt like carved granite.
The Drake Hotel ballroom was a den of wolves disguised in satin and diamonds. Crystal chandeliers cast a dazzling glow over hundreds of guests. The moment Dante and Sienna entered, the murmur of conversation plummeted.
Flashbulbs exploded as society reporters rushed forward, only to be blocked by Dante’s guards.
“Smile, sweetheart,” Dante leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. The warmth of his breath sent a sudden, traitorous shiver down her spine. “They’re watching.”
Sienna smiled, leaning into his side and resting her hand against his chest. Beneath the crisp shirt, his heart was beating with steady, iron rhythm.
Suddenly, a voice like sandpaper cut through the music.
“Well, well. Dante Valente finally found a woman brave enough to walk into his slaughterhouse.”
A man in his late fifties with slicked-back gray hair and a scar tracing his jawline approached. His eyes were cold, calculating, and filled with malice. Rocco Santoro.
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“Rocco,” Dante said, his voice dropping into dangerous sub-zero tones. “I see you survived another year. Impressive, given your declining health.”
Rocco ignored Dante and fixed his predatory gaze on Sienna. “And who is this delicate little bird? She doesn't look like our usual bloodlines. Where did you dig her up, Valente?”
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