They laughed at a plus-size seamstress when her stepsister ripped the only dress her late mother had left her—

The studio Ennio had arranged for Hattie was nothing short of a designer's paradise.

Located on the top floor of a restored cast-iron building in the historic Arts District, the space was flooded with natural, diffused light from massive skylights. The floors were raw, polished pine; the walls were lined with industrial rolling racks, oversized cutting tables made of smooth maple, and a row of brand-new, top-of-the-line Swiss sewing machines that hummed like purring cats.

In the center of the room sat a custom, heavy-duty dress form molded specifically to Hattie’s exact measurements, alongside traditional forms of all shapes and sizes.

Hattie walked through the space in a daze, running her fingers over the smooth wood of the tables. On the shelves were stacks of heavy silk faille, French lace, raw shantung, and cashmere in every shade imaginable, all organized by weight and texture.

"Do you like it?" Ennio asked, leaning against the doorframe, his hands tucked into his slacks.

"Like it?" Hattie spun around, her eyes sparkling with tears she didn't bother to wipe away. "Ennio, this... this is what Mama dreamed of. She used to draw floor plans of a workshop just like this on the backs of paper grocery bags."

"Then it's yours," he said simply. "Consider it the first installment of what you're owed."

For the next five days, Hattie didn't stop working. But unlike the grueling, soul-crushing labor at the Kincaid manor, this was pure, unadulterated passion. With her mother’s journals open before her, she began cutting, draping, and pinning with an artistry that left even Ennio’s tough-faced guards speechless whenever they brought up meals from the city’s finest trattorias.

She didn't just design for the skeletal standard of high fashion. Remembering the humiliation of the ballroom and the years she had spent feeling excluded from beauty, Hattie designed a collection celebrating full-figured grace. She cut garments with structural architecture that flattered real curves—corsetry engineered with internal ribboning that supported without crushing, pleats that moved like liquid water, and hems adorned with subtle, silver-embroidered swallows.

Ennio visited every evening. At first, Hattie thought he was checking on an investment. But soon, she realized he just wanted to be there.

He would sit in a leather armchair in the corner of the loft, his laptop forgotten on his knees, watching in quiet fascination as her hands moved with lightning speed. He watched the way her brow furrowed when she was calculating seam allowances, the way she hummed an old Italian lullaby when she hand-stitched, and the way her soft body moved with undeniable elegance around the dress forms.

One evening, as rain pattered softly against the glass ceiling, Hattie was struggling to pin the heavy train of an imperial blue velvet gown to the shoulder of a mannequin. The fabric was dense, threatening to slip from the clamp.

Suddenly, large, warm hands reached up from behind her, holding the velvet firmly in place against the dress form’s shoulder.

Hattie froze. Ennio was standing so close his chest was pressed against her back. The intoxicating scent of cedar, tobacco, and rain enveloped her entirely. She could feel the steady beat of his heart through his shirt.

"Tell me where to hold it," he whispered, his warm breath stirring the stray curls at the nape of her neck.

Hattie swallowed hard, her pulse thumping wildly in her ears. "Right... right there. Along the shoulder seam. Keep it taut."

Ennio held the fabric with immense care, his large fingers surprisingly dexterous. Hattie picked up her brass pins, but her fingers were trembling so much she dropped one onto the floor.

Before she could bend down, Ennio caught her hand.

He didn't let go. Instead, he gently turned her around so she was facing him. Trapped between the dress form and Ennio’s towering frame, Hattie felt her breath catch.

"You work yourself to the bone, Hattie," he murmured, his dark eyes searching hers with an intensity that made her knees feel weak. "Even when you are free, you work as if the whip is still behind you."

"It's all I know," she confessed softly, looking up into his rugged, striking face. "For so long, my only value was what my hands could produce. Victoria told me that nobody would ever love a woman who took up so much space, that my only hope was to be useful."

Ennio’s expression hardened with a feral, protective anger that took her breath away.

"Victoria is a blind, parasitic fool," he growled softly, raising his hand to cup Hattie’s cheek. His thumb, rough from a life of violence, brushed tenderly over her cheekbone. "You don't take up space, Hattie. You command it. You have more grace, more beauty, and more soul in your little finger than Blair Kincaid could ever dream of possessing."

Hattie’s breath hitched. "Ennio..."

"I have looked at hundreds of women in my life, Hattie," he said, stepping an inch closer until there was no daylight between them. "Models, heiresses, politicians. Hollow dolls dressed in diamonds. But I have never seen a woman who looks like you. You are like a storm—magnificent, undeniable, and alive."

Before Hattie could process the overwhelming weight of his words, the sharp ping of an elevator bell shattered the silence.

Marco, Ennio’s right-hand lieutenant, stepped into the loft, looking grim. He hesitated when he saw how close Ennio and Hattie were standing, then lowered his head respectfully.

"Boss," Marco said quietly. "We have a problem in the Garment District."

Ennio stepped back, though his hand lingered on Hattie’s waist for a second before dropping away. The mask of the ruthless mafia don instantly settled back over his features. "What happened?"

"Blair Kincaid went to our exclusive silk weaver, Signor Benetti," Marco reported. "When Benetti told her that all his stock had been bought out under Miss Hattie’s new production label, Blair threw a tantrum. She called in Dario Moretti."

The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.

Ennio’s eyes narrowed into slits of lethal malice. Dario Moretti was the head of the rival syndicate that controlled the eastern docks—a ruthless thug who had been trying to encroach on Valtrani territory for years.

"Moretti showed up at the textile mill," Marco continued. "He threatened to burn Benetti’s looms unless the silk was handed over to Maison Kincaid for Blair’s gala collection."

Hattie gasped, covering her mouth. "Signor Benetti is eighty years old! He wove the silk for my mother's wedding dress!"

Ennio reached for his suit coat on the back of the chair, his movements cold, deliberate, and terrifyingly calm.