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

The warehouse district smelled of river mud, diesel fumes, and incoming rain.

Outside the brick facade of Benetti Textiles, three sleek black SUVs were parked at erratic angles, their headlights cutting through the descending fog. Inside the cavernous workspace, the rhythmic clack-clack of historic shuttle looms had been silenced by terror.

Blair Kincaid was pacing back and forth along the concrete floor, wearing a white mink jacket and tapping her manicured nails impatiently against her designer purse. Beside her stood Dario Moretti—a heavyset man with slicked-back hair, a scarred lip, and a gold chain resting over his open-collared black shirt. Two armed enforcers stood behind him, intimidating an elderly man with white hair who was clutching a bolt of shimmering midnight-blue silk to his chest.

"I don't care about your artisan ethics, old man," Blair snapped, her voice shrill and dripping with venom. "I need fifty yards of this exact dye lot tonight! Do you have any idea who I am? I am Blair Kincaid! Maison Kincaid is the crown jewel of this city’s couture!"

"Miss Kincaid, please," the old weaver, Signor Benetti, pleaded, his voice trembling. "This silk was commissioned and paid for by Signor Valtrani’s office for Miss Hattie Vance. I cannot sell it to you."

Dario Moretti stepped forward, grabbing the old man by the collar of his linen apron and shoving him back against an antique wooden loom. The wood cracked with a sickening snap.

"Listen to me, grandpa," Moretti growled, tapping a heavy signet ring against Benetti’s temple. "Valtrani doesn't run this block anymore. You hand over the keys to the storage bay, or I’ll have my boys turn this museum of yours into firewood."

"Let him go, Moretti."

The voice cut through the cavernous mill like an ice pick through glass.

Moretti froze. Blair whirled around, a look of sudden panic flashing across her face.

At the main roll-up door stood Ennio Valtrani. He wore no coat despite the damp chill, only his dark dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the forearms, exposing the dark, intricate tattoos of black vines and armor that snaked down his skin. Behind him, emerging silently from the shadows, were six of his top men, their hands resting inside their coats.

And walking right beside Ennio, tall, poised, and utterly fearless in her emerald silk dress, was Hattie.

"Ennio!" Blair shrieked, taking an involuntary step back behind Moretti. "What is she doing here? Why are you protecting this... this nobody?"

Moretti released Benetti, who scrambled away toward the safety of the back office. Moretti forced a crooked, arrogant grin as he faced Ennio.

"Valtrani," Moretti sneered, adjusting his leather jacket. "I didn't think you cared about scraps of fabric. Word on the street is you’re losing your touch. Walking away from corporate deals to play white knight for a chubby seamstress?"

Before Moretti could blink, Ennio moved.

It was blindingly fast. Ennio closed the fifteen-foot distance between them in three predatory strides. Moretti reached for his waistband, but Ennio’s left hand shot out like an iron vice, clamping around Moretti’s throat and slamming the larger man backward against a steel support pillar with enough force to knock the air straight out of his lungs.

The sound of four guns cocking echoed through the mill as Moretti’s two thugs drew their weapons—only to be instantly targeted by Marco and Ennio’s men, red laser dots painting their foreheads.

"Drop them," Marco ordered quietly. The two thugs, realizing they were completely outmatched, slowly lowered their pistols to the concrete floor and kicked them away.

Ennio leaned in close to Moretti’s purple, gasping face. His voice was barely a whisper, yet it held the weight of a death sentence.

"You speak her name again," Ennio said softly, tightening his grip until Moretti’s eyes bulged, "and I will tear your tongue out through your throat. You come near this mill again, and I won't just kill you, Dario. I will burn your family's shipping docks to ash and scatter the cinders in the harbor. Do you understand me?"

Moretti could only manage a frantic, terrified nod.

Ennio shoved him away like a sack of garbage. Moretti crumpled to his hands and knees, choking and coughing violently as he clutched his bruised throat.

"Get out," Ennio commanded.

Moretti scrambled to his feet and bolted for the exit, his two enforcers trailing behind him like whipped dogs, leaving Blair completely alone in the center of the mill.

Blair stood trembling, her face drained of all color, looking desperately at Ennio. "Ennio... please. You don't know what you're doing. Maison Kincaid is ruined without that silk. We have no show! Mother is going to lose the house!"

Hattie stepped forward. She didn't look down at the floor. She looked Blair dead in the eye, seeing for the first time how small, pathetic, and hollow her stepsister truly was without her mother's scheming and Hattie’s invisible labor.

"You never had a show, Blair," Hattie said, her voice clear, steady, and resonant. "You never had an empire. You had my mother’s stolen designs and my bruised fingers. For eight years, you called me fat, clumsy, and worthless. You tore my mother's dress because you couldn't stand the idea of anyone looking at me instead of you."

"Hattie, we’re sisters!" Blair cried, tears of self-pity finally spilling over her mascara. "We shared a home!"

"We shared an attic and a mansion," Hattie countered fiercely. "You took the velvet; I took the scraps. Well, Blair... the scraps are mine now. And so is the runway."

Hattie turned to Ennio. "Can we load the silk, please? I have a collection to finish."

Ennio’s face softened as he looked at her. A slow, proud smile touched his lips.