Chapter 4 - Shadows of the Past
Three weeks passed in a blur of surreal luxury and quiet routine.
The dark circles under my eyes faded, replaced by healthy color. I spent my days with Zayn, reading stories, playing in the massive manicured gardens, and helping him with his school lessons. In return, Zayn gave me something I hadn't possessed in years: a reason to smile without fear.
My relationship with Kian, however, remained a tense, electric dance.
We saw each other every evening at dinner. He was a man of few words, but every look he threw across the mahogany table held a heavy, simmering heat. He observed me constantly—how I laughed at Zayn’s jokes, how I winced when a loud car drove past the gates, how I carefully avoided touching his hand when passing the salt.
He was reading me like a book, and it terrified me how easily he understood my scars.
On a cold Thursday evening, Kian entered the dining room earlier than usual, wearing an immaculate charcoal tuxedo.
“Put on something formal,” he stated, adjusting his cufflinks. “We leave in an hour.”
I blinked, putting down my fork. “Leave? Where?”
“The Grand Winter Gala at the Plaza Hotel,” Kian replied. “The elite of New York—politicians, judges, and syndicate leaders—will be there. It’s time we announce our fake engagement to the public.”
Panick flared in my chest. “Kian, I don’t know how to act in front of mob bosses and high society! What if I mess up?”
Kian walked over to my chair, leaning down until his lips were inches from my ear. “You don’t need to act like anything, Aurora. Just stand by my side, look beautiful, and let them see who you belong to.”
An hour later, a team of stylists sent by Kian finished my transformation.
I stood in front of the full-length mirror, hardly recognizing the woman staring back. I wore a floor-length dress of deep emerald silk that clung to my waist and flowed behind me like liquid glass. My dark hair was pinned up in an elegant cascade, and around my neck hung a teardrop emerald necklace that costs more than my stepmother’s entire life debt.
When I walked down the grand staircase into the foyer, Kian was waiting.
He froze. His gray eyes tracked my every movement down the steps, darkening into something wild and hungry. For the first time, the cool, unshakeable Mafia King looked genuinely speechless.
“Will I do?” I asked quietly, feeling my face warm under his intense stare.
Kian stepped forward, taking my gloved hand and raising it to his lips. His warm breath brushed against my skin. “You look breathtaking, Aurora. Absolutely lethal.”
The Plaza Hotel was a glittering sea of diamonds, expensive champagne, and dangerous power. As Kian’s arm slid around my waist, guiding me through the opulent ballroom, a path opened instantly before us. Heads turned, hushed whispers rippled through the crowd, and eyes filled with awe and fear followed our every step.
“Keep your head up,” Kian murmured near my temple, his grip on my waist firm and protective. “They are staring because they know if they look at you wrong, I will tear them apart.”
Suddenly, a voice dripping with patronizing arrogance cut through the air.
“Kian! I heard rumors, but I didn’t believe them.”
A middle-aged man with slicked-back gray hair and a glass of bourbon stepped out from a circle of wealthy donors. It was Don Falcone, the head of a rival crime family operating out of Queens.
Falcone’s predatory eyes slithered down my emerald dress, lingering a second too long on my neckline. “So this is the little charity case you rescued from Brooklyn? I heard she was running from fifty grand. A bit low-class for a Moretti queen, isn’t she?”
The ambient noise in our immediate circle died instantly.
I felt Kian’s body go completely rigid against mine. The air around us became suffocatingly dangerous.
Before Falcone could take another sip of his drink, Kian moved.
In a movement so fast it was almost invisible, Kian caught Falcone by the throat, slamming him hard against a marble pillar behind him. The glass of bourbon shattered on the parquet floor.
The entire ballroom gasped. Weapons were subtly drawn beneath jackets throughout the room, but Kian didn't care.
“Speak about my fiancée like that again, Falcone,” Kian growled, his voice a low, lethal vibration that echoed off the high ceilings, “and I won’t just take your territory in Queens. I will bury you under it.”
Falcone’s face turned bright red, struggling for air, his eyes wide with genuine horror. “K-Kian… wait…”
Kian released him contemptuously, letting the rival boss collapse onto his knees, coughing desperately.
Kian pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket, casually wiping his hands as if he had just touched trash, then offered his arm back to me.
“Shall we get a drink, my love?” he asked me smoothly, his face returning to a calm, perfect mask.
I placed my trembling hand over his forearm, looking at the man who had just risked a gang war simply because someone insulted my honor.
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For the first time, I realized my heart wasn't beating fast out of fear of Kian Moretti.
It was beating fast because I was falling for him.
