Chapter 4 - SHADOWS IN THE MARBLE
Two weeks passed like a slow-moving fever dream.
Under Dr. Chen’s strict care, my wounds began to heal, leaving dark pink scars across my shoulder and side—constant reminders of the night my old life died.
I learned the rhythm of the estate. I learned that Vincent barely slept more than four hours a night. I learned that he took his coffee black, read financial reports from three different continents before dawn, and personally inspected every guard on the perimeter every night at midnight.
And I learned that despite his terrifying reputation across Chicago, he treated me with a reverence that confused me to my core. He never forced himself into my space. He slept on the leather sofa in the master suite every night, leaving the king-sized bed entirely to me.
On the fifteenth day, the silence broke.
Vincent stepped into the bedroom, wearing a tailored midnight-blue tuxedo that made him look impossibly broad and imposing. He carried a heavy velvet box in his hand.
"Tonight is the Commission Summit," Vincent said, setting the box down on the vanity table. "Every family head in the Midwest will be at the Drake Hotel. Don Valenti called the meeting himself to demand a resolution regarding Mateo’s death."
I sat up straight, my pulse quickening. "Are you going?"
"We are going," Vincent corrected gently. "The underworld thinks I married a victim out of pity. They think the Rossi family is unstable after Mateo’s treason. Tonight, I introduce my wife to Chicago. We show them we are whole, dangerous, and unified."
He opened the velvet box. Inside lay a emerald-cut diamond necklace that looked like it belonged to royalty, along with a stunning silk gown the color of deep wine.
"If you are too weak—" Vincent began.
"No," I cut him off, standing up from the bed. My legs were still slightly shaky, but my resolve was solid. "I'm coming with you."
Two hours later, I stood before the full-length mirror in the dressing room.
The wine-red gown hugged every curve of my body, the thick silk cleverly concealing the bandages still taped across my side. The emerald necklace sparkled against my collarbone, resting right above the faint edge of the scar on my shoulder. My hair was swept up into an elegant French twist, exposing my long neck.
I didn't look like Clara the waitress anymore.
I looked like a queen dressed for battle.
Vincent stepped up behind me in the mirror. His dark eyes swept over my reflection, his expression darkening with a raw, intense appreciation that made my skin flush warm.
"You are breathtaking, Clara," he murmured, his hands resting gently on my bare shoulders. His touch sent a shiver straight down my spine.
"Do I look convincing?" I asked softly, turning in his arms to look up at him.
"You look like a Rossi," he answered, pulling a small, silver-plated pistol from his jacket and slipping it into a concealed holster built inside my silk handbag. "Keep this with you. If anyone steps within two feet of you without my permission, you don't ask questions. You shoot."
"Vincent—"
"This isn't a dinner party, my love," he whispered, kissing my temple gently. "It’s a den of wolves. Let's go show them who rules the territory."
The Drake Hotel ballroom was filled with hundreds of people in high-end formal wear, but the air felt heavy with tension, greed, and hidden weapons. Gold chandeliers hung from the ceiling, reflecting off champagne flutes and expensive diamonds, but every man in the room carried the cold gaze of a killer.
The moment Vincent walked through the archway, with me on his arm, the music seemed to falter.
Dozens of eyes locked onto us. Whispers rippled through the crowd like wind through dry leaves.
"Look at him... brought his little charity case..." "Is that the girl from the diner?" "She looks too soft to survive a month in his house..."
Vincent ignored them all, walking with a calm, predatory grace that commanded the entire room. He led me straight toward the head table in the center of the ballroom, where an old man with slicked-back white hair and a sharp tailored suit sat surrounded by six heavy bodyguards.
Don Valenti. The head of the rival syndicate.
"Vincent," Valenti drawled, raising his glass of scotch in a slow mock toast. "We were beginning to think you were too busy nursing your new little bride to join us."
"Don Valenti," Vincent replied, his tone smooth as ice. "I brought her so you could see the woman who survived four of your best hitmen."
Valenti’s eyes snapped to mine. They were cold, yellowed, and filled with deep cruelty. "A lucky girl. But luck runs out quickly in this city, Vincent. Especially when you execute your own captains without trial."
"Mateo was a traitor," Vincent said flatly. "And anyone who backed him is a target. Are you declaring yourself a target tonight, Valenti?"
The tension in the ballroom exploded. Guards on both sides subtly shifted their hands toward their jackets.
Valenti sneered, leaning forward. "You talk big for a man with snakes in his garden, Rossi. You think Mateo was the only one who hated you? Look around this room. Half these men are waiting for you to turn your back."
Before Vincent could reply, a waiter stepped up to our table, carrying a tray of champagne glasses. He bowed his head respectfully, placing two glasses down in front of us.
As the waiter turned to leave, his sleeve pulled back slightly, exposing a small tattoo on his inner wrist.
A coiled viper. The emblem of Mateo’s old personal unit.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I looked down at the champagne glass sitting in front of Vincent. A tiny, almost unnoticeable film of white powder was dissolving into the golden bubbles near the rim.
"Vincent," I whispered urgently, grabbing his forearm.
"Not now, Clara," Vincent murmured, keeping his eyes locked on Valenti.
May you like
"Vincent, don't drink!" I snapped, my voice ringing out loudly across the quieted table.
I snatched the glass from the table and threw the contents straight into Don Valenti’s face.
