Chapter 3 - The Fortress of Glass and Iron
The black Maybach glided through the rain-slicked streets of the city like a predatory shark cutting through dark water. Inside, the leather was supple and quiet, insulated so thoroughly that the city's chaos was reduced to a muted hum.
Hattie sat stiffly on the passenger side, her hands folded over Ennio’s coat in her lap. She felt absurdly large and clumsy inside the pristine interior. She was acutely aware of her worn shoes, the rough calluses on her palms, and the single brass pin still stuck into the fabric of her sleeve.
Beside her, Ennio had discarded his tie. He was typing something into a secure phone with one hand, his expression cold and focused.
"Where are we going?" Hattie finally found the courage to ask. Her voice trembled, though she tried desperately to steady it. "If you take me back to the manor, Victoria will have locked the gates. And my passport... my mother’s journals... they're still in the workshop attic."
Ennio stopped typing. He set the phone down on the console between them and turned his head to look at her. In the ambient amber light of the passing streetlamps, his profile was severe, almost intimidating.
"You are never setting foot in that house again, Hattie," he said simply.
"You don't understand," she argued, leaning forward, her heart racing. "My mother spent her life filling three black-bound ledgers with pattern formulas, fabric dye recipes, and embroidery drafts. When she married Charles, he promised to build an atelier around her work. But when she got sick... Victoria took everything. If those books stay there, Victoria will burn them out of spite."
Ennio looked at her for a long beat. Then he picked up his phone, tapped an icon, and put it to his ear.
"Marco," Ennio said when the line connected. "The Kincaid residence in Crestview. Send four men. Enter the attic workshop above the carriage garage. Retrieve every notebook, sketch, scrap of cloth, and piece of sewing equipment. If anyone inside the main house objects, remind them of the structural integrity of their kneecaps. I want it all delivered to the penthouse within the hour."
He hung up without waiting for an answer.
Hattie stared at him, her lips slightly parted. "You... you can't just send men into someone’s house like that."
"In this city, Hattie, I can do precisely what I please," Ennio replied, his voice completely level. "Your mother saved my life when she should have let me bleed out. She didn't ask for my surname, and she didn't ask what I had done to deserve a bullet. She saw a child who needed shelter, and she gave it. I don't leave my benefactors’ daughters in attics."
The car turned off the main boulevard, descending into the private, subterranean garage of the Sovereign Tower—a monolith of dark glass and reinforced steel that dominated the northern skyline.
When the car came to a smooth halt, the chauffeur opened the door. Ennio stepped out first, then turned and offered his hand to Hattie once more. She hesitated, looking down at her torn hem, but his gaze was unyielding.
"Chin up, Miss Kincaid," he murmured, his voice softening by a fraction. "The predators only bite when they see you looking at your own feet."
Swallowing hard, Hattie took his hand and stepped out onto the polished epoxy floor.
They took a private express elevator that bypassed the main lobby entirely, soaring sixty floors in near silence. When the doors slid open, Hattie felt the breath leave her lungs.
The penthouse was vast, an open-concept sanctuary of dark stone, floor-to-ceiling glass, and warm wood. Rain lashed against the massive panoramic windows, offering a dizzying view of the glittering metropolis below. It was masculine, impeccably clean, and intimidatingly grand.
An older woman with silver hair pulled into a neat twist hurried into the entryway, carrying a warm throw blanket.
"Signor Ennio," the woman said in lightly accented English. "You returned early from the gala."
"Rosa, this is Hattie Kincaid," Ennio introduced, stepping back so the woman could see her. "She will be staying here. Prepare the east suite—the one with the northern light."
Rosa looked at Hattie, taking in the torn, exquisite dress, the oversized tuxedo jacket, and the exhaustion etched deep into Hattie’s soft face. Instead of the judgment Hattie had braced herself for, Rosa’s eyes softened with instant maternal warmth.
"Dear child," Rosa said, immediately draping the soft cashmere blanket around Hattie’s trembling shoulders. "Come, come away from the draft. Your hands are like ice."
"I... I don't want to impose," Hattie murmured, looking helplessly at Ennio. "I have no money to pay you for a room. Blair and Victoria kept my accounts frozen under a trust guardianship."
Ennio’s jaw tightened. "We will discuss your finances tomorrow. Tonight, you rest."
Rosa led Hattie down a wide corridor lined with modern art and soft, recessed lighting, finally bringing her into a bedroom suite that was larger than the entire attic floor of the Kincaid manor. A massive king-sized bed sat against the wall, dressed in crisp, slate-gray linens. Through an arched doorway, Hattie caught a glimpse of a marble bathroom with a deep soaking tub.
"Take a hot bath, little bird," Rosa said gently, patting Hattie’s arm. "I will bring you some chamomile tea and something light to eat. No one can hurt you here. Signor Ennio's walls are very thick."
Forty minutes later, Hattie sat on the edge of the immense bed, wearing a pair of clean, oversized flannel pajamas that Rosa had provided. Her skin was warm from the bath, but her mind was spinning at a terrifying speed.
A soft knock sounded at the open door.
Ennio stood in the threshold. He had changed into a simple black cashmere sweater and dark trousers, looking significantly less like an untouchable mob patriarch and more like a man burdened by heavy thoughts.
In his hands, he carried three worn, leather-bound notebooks with water-damaged covers.
Hattie gasped, shooting up from the bed. "My mother's journals!"
"Marco just brought them in," Ennio said, stepping into the room and placing the books gently on the low oak table beside the window. "Along with your sewing kit, your mother's shears, and four trunks of fabrics from your workroom. My men are storing the heavy equipment in the lower suite."
Hattie rushed over to the table, her hands hovering over the cracked leather before pressing down against them. Tears pricked her eyes. "Victoria didn't stop them?"
"Victoria was too busy speaking with her lawyers about the fraud investigation my accountants opened thirty minutes ago," Ennio said dryly.
He walked closer, his eyes scanning Hattie’s bare hands as she traced the embossed swallow on the leather cover. His gaze snagged on her fingers.
He reached out, his touch shockingly gentle, and caught her right hand by the wrist.
Hattie tried to pull back instinctively, embarrassed by the state of her hands. But Ennio didn't let go. He turned her palm upward toward the warm lamplight.
Her fingers were crisscrossed with tiny, faded white scars from needle slips. Her index finger had a thickened, permanent callus from pushing heavy brass thimbles through dense twill and leather. Near her thumb was a long, jagged burn mark—an old injury from a commercial iron.
Ennio’s face darkened, a lethal, quiet fury rolling off him in waves. "How many hours a day were you working?"
"Ten. Sometimes sixteen before fashion week," she whispered, unable to meet his eyes. "Blair had the ideas... or rather, she had the social calendar. She told me what the clients wanted. But she didn't know how to draft a bodice. She didn't know how to cut fabric on the bias. If the seams puckered, Victoria would lock the workshop doors until the whole rack was redone."
"And the collection Maison Kincaid showed in Paris last winter?" Ennio asked, his voice deathly quiet. "The one that won the Golden Needle award?"
Hattie’s lip trembled. "I didn't sleep for four days to finish those nine gowns. Blair flew to Paris to accept the trophy. I watched the live stream on my phone while I hemmed curtains for Victoria’s drawing room."
Ennio released her wrist, though his thumb brushed the tender skin of her palm before he withdrew. He turned toward the window, looking out over the rain-drenched city.
"They made millions off your blood," he said, the words vibrating with dangerous intent. "And tonight, they mocked you because you didn't fit into the mold of their plastic, hollow world."
He turned back to face her. In the soft light of the bedroom, his eyes were burning with an intensity that made Hattie’s breath hitch.
"Maison Kincaid is going to burn to the ground, Hattie," Ennio stated calmly. "And from its ashes, we are going to build your fashion house. Not Blair’s. Not Victoria’s. Yours."
"I don't have the courage for that, Mr. Valtrani," she said honestly, shrinking slightly under his intense gaze. "I’m just a girl who hides behind a machine. Look at me. I don't belong on runways. I don't belong in magazines."
Ennio stepped closer, stopping just inches from her. He was taller, broader, casting a protective shadow over her. Yet there was no cruelty in his eyes—only an absolute, unshakeable certainty.
May you like
"You look like a woman sculpted by gods who were tired of making frail things," he said, his voice dropping into a register that sent a shiver straight down her spine. "And as for courage... you survived that family for eight years without letting them kill your mother's art. That isn't weakness, Hattie. That is steel. And tomorrow, we sharpen it."
***
