Chapter 5 - Silk Over Bruises
Morning light spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the master bedroom, illuminating vaulted ceilings adorned with hand-painted frescoes of Venetian battles. I sat on the edge of the emperor-sized bed, draped in a plush cashmere robe that smelled of sandalwood and cedar—Dante’s scent.
Down below in the central cobblestone courtyard, black smoke billowed toward the gray autumn sky.
I stood up and walked slowly to the reinforced glass balcony. Through the glass, I could see two dozen estate guards methodically tossing designer trunks, fur coats, and racks of high-fashion evening wear into a massive industrial incinerator.
Standing behind the security perimeter, Camila Sterling was screaming so loudly her voice carried up three stories.
“You barbarian! That is custom Chanel! Those are vintage Birkins!” she shrieked, clawing at the burly guards holding her back. Her immaculate gala hairstyle had completely unraveled, mascara running in greasy black tracks down her cheeks. “Where is Dante? Let me speak to Dante!”
The door behind me swung open, and Dante entered, followed by an elderly woman with sharp silver hair, accompanied by four assistants carrying rolls of rich, shimmering fabrics.
“Enjoying the view?” Dante asked, coming to stand beside me at the railing. He had changed into a charcoal three-piece suit, looking rested, lethal, and devastatingly handsome.
“You’re burning a million dollars worth of clothing,” I murmured, watching a rack of silk dresses dissolve into ash.
“A million dollars of bad taste and treacherous intent,” Dante countered coldly. “It cleanses the air.” He turned to the elderly woman behind us. “Madame Laurent. Meet Clara Vance.”
Madame Laurent stepped forward, her sharp, discerning eyes sweeping over me from head to toe. I instinctively shrank back, crossing my arms over my chest, bracing myself for the usual condescending smirk I received from high-end fashion clerks who saw my broad hips, full bust, and soft curves as a personal offense to couture.
Instead, Madame Laurent let out an appreciative gasp, clapping her tape-measure-draped hands together.
“Mon Dieu,” she breathed, circling me with an artist’s reverence. “The proportions! The poise! Dante, you told me I would be dressing a woman, but you failed to mention she has the silhouette of an Italian Renaissance goddess. Those high cheekbones! That waist-to-hip ratio! Throw away those awful gray rags immediately!”
I blinked, completely stunned. “Madame, I am... I’m not a sample size.”
“Sample sizes are designed for hanger-racks, chérie, not for queens,” Madame Laurent declared, snapping her fingers at her assistants. “Unroll the emerald velvet. Bring the gold silk. We need structured draping to frame those collarbones, and we must ensure the fabric caresses her waist without pulling.”
Over the next two hours, the master suite became a whirlwind of silk, brocade, and measuring tape. Madame Laurent didn’t hide my body; she celebrated it. She cut and pinned rich fabrics that hugged my hips, showcased my cleavage with elegant dignity, and draped like liquid emerald across my frame.
For the first time in my thirty years, looking into the full-length mirror didn't fill me with self-consciousness. It filled me with power.
Dante sat in an armchair by the fireplace, pretending to review financial ledgers on his tablet, but I could feel his gaze burning into me every time Madame Laurent adjusted the neckline or smoothed the fabric over my curves. Every time our eyes met in the reflection, his breath seemed to hitch.
By noon, the tailors had packed up with promises of twenty completed custom ensembles by evening. Dante stood up, dismissing the staff with a nod.
“There is a syndicate luncheon downstairs at one o'clock,” Dante said, walking over to me. He reached out, gently tucking a stray auburn lock behind my ear. “The Five Families are arriving to discuss Julian Sterling’s betrayal. Camila will be there with her legal counsel to plead for leniency before we hand her brother over to the federal authorities.”
“You want me there?” I asked, feeling a knot of anxiety tighten in my stomach. “Dante, they know me as the maid who broke the wine.”
“They will know you as the woman who sits at my right hand,” he corrected fiercely. “Wear the emerald silk suit Madame Laurent left on the mannequin. Let them see who rules this house.”
Before Dante could say another word, the bedroom intercom buzzed sharply.
Dante pressed the button. “Speak.”
“Boss,” Marco’s voice crackled through the speaker, tight with tension. “We have an issue in the main hall. Camila broke into your study with the estate housekeeper. She’s claiming Miss Vance stole the Moretti family heirloom ring from your vault before coming upstairs last night. Security found the ring in Miss Vance’s cellar locker.”
My stomach dropped through the floor. “What? That's impossible! I’ve never even seen the family ring!”
Dante’s eyes flared with a lethal, icy calm.
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“A desperate viper bites whatever it can reach before it dies,” Dante whispered, his jaw set in stone. “Come, Clara. Let us go introduce Miss Sterling to the consequences of framed perjury.”
***
