Chapter 6 - The Shadow at the Gates
Two weeks passed, and the estate shifted around me like a velvet glove over an iron fist.
I was no longer Ivy the maid. I was Ivy—the quiet, protected resident of the fourth floor whose name was spoken in hushed, respectful whispers by the staff. Vane personally delivered my course schedules for the upcoming semester at Boise State, along with textbooks, laptops, and a brand-new wardrobe that Carmine had ordered from a high-end boutique downtown.
I tried to resist the luxury at first. I was used to worn denim and five-dollar grocery store shirts, but Carmine made it impossible to refuse.
"You are a representative of this house now," Carmine had told me over dinner one evening in his private dining room. "If you wear rags, it tells my enemies I cannot afford to dress what is mine."
What is mine. The phrase kept echoing in my mind, sending strange, thrilling shivers through my veins.
Our evenings together became a routine. Every night at 7:30 PM, Carmine would step out of his office, lay his weapons on the side table, and join me for dinner. He didn't talk about business—he didn't mention the turf wars, the shipments coming through the Port of Seattle, or the corrupt city officials on his payroll.
He asked about my botany textbooks. He listened intently while I rambled about plant cellular structures and soil compositions, sipping his vintage red wine with a quiet, genuine smile that transformed his harsh, dangerous face into something breathtakingly handsome.
I was falling for him. It was terrifying, reckless, and completely unavoidable. How could I not? This man was a devil to the rest of the world, but to me, he was a shield.
Then came the night of the winter gala.
Every December, the DeLuca Foundation hosted a massive charity ball at the Boise Centre downtown. It was the premier event of the season—a place where the city's elite, from the governor to federal judges, rubbed shoulders with the underworld kingpin who secretly ran their lives.
"You're coming with me," Carmine announced two days before the event, sitting across from me in the library.
I blinked, nearly dropping my mug of tea. "To the gala? Carmine, I can't. Everyone in the city knows I worked here as a maid three weeks ago. If your associates see me—"
"My associates will bow," Carmine interrupted coldly, closing his leather document folder with a sharp snap. "And if anyone dares to whisper a word about your past, Vane will ensure they lose their liquor licenses by midnight."
He stood up, walking around the desk to stand over me. He reached out, his hand gently cupping the back of my neck, tilting my face up to his.
"You walk into that room beside me, Ivy," Carmine whispered, his dark eyes fierce. "Not behind me. Beside me."
On the night of the gala, a team of stylists arrived at the suite. They styled my dark hair into an elegant chignon, applied subtle, glowing makeup that completely hid the faint, fading trace of yellow beneath my left eye, and dressed me in a breathtaking midnight-blue silk gown that clung to my curves before falling into a floor-length train.
When I stepped downstairs into the grand foyer, Carmine was waiting.
He wore a custom black tuxedo that emphasized his broad shoulders and commanding height. When his eyes landed on me, he froze. For a full ten seconds, the most powerful man in the Pacific Northwest simply stood there, staring at me as if I were the only light in a pitch-black room.
"Breathtaking," Carmine breathed softly, walking up the marble steps to offer me his arm.
I slid my hand into the crook of his elbow, feeling the hard cord of muscle beneath his suit sleeve.
"Ready?" he asked.
"With you? Always," I murmured.
The gala was a blur of crystal chandeliers, champagne fountains, and blinding flashbulbs. As we entered the main ballroom, a hush washed over the crowd of five hundred people. All eyes locked onto Carmine DeLuca—and the unknown, radiant woman on his arm.
Carmine moved through the room like a king, introducing me to senators, developers, and high-ranking police commanders as "Miss Ivy, a close personal associate."
No one dared question it. The respect—and terror—he commanded was absolute.
Around 10:00 PM, while Carmine was pulled into a brief conversation with a local federal prosecutor near the VIP lounge, I stepped out toward the outdoor balcony to catch my breath in the cool winter air.
The snow was falling softly over the glittering lights of downtown Boise. I leaned against the marble balustrade, taking a deep breath of the crisp air, feeling like Cinderella in a dark, twisted fairytale.
"Well, well, well. Look at the little scrubbing brush all dressed up in silk."
A harsh, raspy voice sliced through the quiet night.
I spun around, my heart dropping into my stomach.
Standing near the dark shadows of the balcony pillar was a tall, lean man in an ill-fitting suit. He had slicked-back greasy hair, a sharp nose, and cold, snake-like eyes.
I recognized him immediately from the DeLuca compound files I had seen on Vane’s desk.
Dominic Rossi. Rocco’s older brother—and a capo in the rival Moretti syndicate based out of Spokane.
"Dominic," I gasped, backing up against the marble railing.
"You remember me, sweet girl?" Dominic sneered, taking a slow step toward me, his hand tucked suspiciously inside his suit jacket. "My brother Rocco is lying under six feet of lime in the Idaho woods because of you. Carmine killed him for a five-dollar-an-hour maid."
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"Your brother was a monster," I said, my voice trembling, though I forced myself to stand tall. "He attacked me."
"He was family!" Dominic spat, his eyes flashing with wild, unhinged fury. He pulled a small, silver-plated pistol from his coat pocket, aiming it straight at my chest. "And Carmine DeLuca is going to learn what it costs to tear my family apart."
