Chapter 4 - The Lion’s Court
“A fake engagement?” I stammered, stepping back into the wood-paneled elevator as the doors slid shut. “Dominic, that’s insane! Look at me! I’m twenty-three. I wear rubber gloves and clean bathrooms for eight dollars an hour. Your world will eat me alive!”
Dominic didn't flinch. He hit the button for the underground parking garage.
“My world eats anyone who shows weakness,” he countered, his voice steady as a heartbeat. “If I put you in a safehouse, Hayes will find you. If I send you away with a bag of cash, his mercenaries will intercept you on the interstate. But as my woman? As Dominic Whitmore’s future wife? An attack on you is a declaration of total war against my entire syndicate. Nobody in Chicago has the balls to make that move in broad daylight.”
The elevator pinged, opening into the dim underground lot where his motorcade waited with engines idling.
“Besides,” Dominic added, tilting his head slightly, a dark smirk playing at the corner of his lips, “you dove into twelve feet of water and snapped aircraft cable with a bobby pin while two hundred men stood frozen. You have more spine than half my captains. Don’t sell yourself short, Lily.”
Before I could process the surreal gravity of his words, we were back at the mansion.
The chaos from two hours ago had been scrubbed clean. The terrace was empty. Victoria was gone. But the estate was now crawling with heavily armed men wearing earpieces and tactical vests.
Arthur met us at the grand foyer.
“Sir, the designers from Milan have arrived. They’re waiting in the east salon with the wardrobes you requested.”
“Good,” Dominic said. “Lily, follow Arthur. Get some sleep. Tomorrow evening is the annual Black & Silver Gala at the Drake Hotel. Donald Hayes will be there, expecting an announcement about his daughter. Instead, he will get you.”
The next fourteen hours were a blur of sheer sensory overload.
I was moved into a sprawling second-floor suite with vaulted ceilings and a king-sized canopy bed. At dawn, a team of three women entered my room like a gentle hurricane. They washed the pool chemicals from my skin, conditioned my long chestnut hair until it cascaded in glossy, soft waves, and brought out garments that cost more than my mother’s previous five years of rent combined.
When the clock struck six in the evening, I stood in front of the full-length mirror, barely recognizing the woman staring back.
I wore an emerald-green silk gown with an asymmetrical off-the-shoulder neckline. It hugged my waist and flowed behind me like liquid emerald, contrasting sharply with my fair skin and hazel eyes. Around my neck hung a platinum choker set with a single, flawless pear-cut diamond.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
Arthur opened it, stepping aside as Dominic rolled into the room.
He was dressed in a custom tuxedo of midnight black, his broad shoulders filling out the tailored fabric flawlessly. His dark hair was immaculately styled, his jaw freshly shaven.
When his eyes landed on me, he stopped completely.
The room went dead silent.
Dominic’s gray eyes traveled from the hem of the emerald gown, up the curve of my waist, to my collarbone, and finally locked onto my eyes. For the first time since I had met him, the mafia boss looked completely speechless.
“You look...” Dominic cleared his throat, a faint roughness in his voice. “You look like royalty, Lily.”
A blush warmed my cheeks. “I feel like an imposter.”
“An imposter hides,” Dominic said, rolling closer. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy velvet box. He flipped it open.
Inside sat a ring that made the air vanish from my lungs. A six-carat emerald-cut diamond, flanked by tapered baguettes, catching the chandelier light like a prism of raw fire.
He took my left hand. His skin was warm, his touch remarkably tender compared to the violent reputation he carried. He slid the ring onto my fourth finger. It was a perfect fit.
“Remember who you are tonight,” Dominic murmured, his voice dropping an octave, his eyes searching mine with intense gravity. “You aren't a victim. You aren't a maid. You are the woman who pulled Dominic Whitmore from the grave. When you walk into that ballroom beside me, chin up. Let them fear you.”
He offered his arm.
May you like
I took a deep, steadying breath, placed my hand on his broad, muscular forearm, and nodded. “Let’s go.”
***
