Chapter 3 - The Society Debut
The dress was a weapon in itself.
It was crimson silk, cut so low in the back it exposed the smooth curve of my spine, while the front clung to every contour of my body like a second skin. A slit ran up my left thigh, strategically revealing just enough to be scandalous, while high-necked long sleeves added an aristocratic, untouchable elegance.
A team of four stylists had spent the last three hours transforming Elena Brooks, overworked event coordinator, into Elena Brooks, the captivating mystery woman who had allegedly brought Adrian Moretti to his knees.
My hair was swept up into an intricate, cascading chignon, leaving my neck bare, save for a collar of black diamonds that matched the engagement ring on my finger.
The door to the penthouse dressing room clicked open.
I turned.
Adrian stood in the doorway, dressed in a custom, midnight-black tuxedo that made him look like a fallen archangel. His broad shoulders filled the frame, his crisp white shirt a stark contrast against his tanned, scarred skin. The wolf tattoo was hidden beneath the tailored silk, but the predator was entirely visible in the way he looked at me.
His gaze swept over me slowly, deliberately, lingering on the exposed skin of my shoulder, the curve of my waist, the slit of the dress.
Something dark and hungry flickered in his gray eyes before he masked it with his usual composure.
“You clean up well, Brooks,” he said, his voice low and raspy.
“I feel like a target dressed in red,” I muttered, fidgeting with the heavy diamond bracelet at my wrist. “Why do we have to do this tonight? It’s been less than thirty-six hours since your estate was shot up.”
“Because weakness smells like blood in the water,” Adrian said, crossing the room to stand behind me in front of the full-length gilded mirror.
His reflection towered over mine. He placed his hands on my bare shoulders. His palms were warm, sending a jolt of static electricity skittering across my skin. I instinctively stiffened, but he didn't let go.
“Tonight is the Winter Solstice Gala at the Boston Symphony Hall,” he explained, his eyes meeting mine in the glass. “Every boss, politician, judge, and corrupt official in New England will be there. Matteo Rossi will be there. If I hide, they will think I am wounded. If you are not by my side, they will think our engagement is a rumor born of desperation.”
“Isn't it?” I asked, tilting my head back to meet his gaze.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “They can suspect all they want. But tonight, you are going to look at me like you love me. You are going to lean into me, you are going to laugh at my words, and you are going to make every man in that ballroom envy me.”
“I’m an event planner, Adrian, not an actress.”
“Then treat it like an event,” he whispered, his hands sliding down my arms until his fingers laced through mine, lifting my left hand to show the massive diamond in the mirror. “You’ve organized these parties. You know how the rich play. Tonight, you aren't setting the tables. You’re the centerpiece.”
He turned me around to face him. He reached into his tuxedo jacket and pulled out a small, lethal-looking object. It was a pearl-handled, ultra-compact pistol, no bigger than the palm of my hand.
He reached down, casually lifting the silk fabric at my thigh.
My breath caught. “What are you doing?”
“Ensuring your survival,” he said smoothly, completely unfazed as his fingers brushed the bare skin of my upper thigh.
He strapped a concealed leather holster around my leg, securing the tiny firearm against my skin. The cold metal sent a shiver through me, but his fingers, lingering against my flesh, burned hotter.
“Three-shot derringer,” he instructed, smoothing the silk dress back down over the weapon. “It won't stop an army, but at point-blank range, it will put a hole through a man’s throat. If anyone separates you from me tonight, don't ask questions. Don't hesitate. Pull the trigger.”
I swallowed hard, the reality of the evening sinking in. “Is it really that dangerous?”
Adrian didn't lie to me. He leaned in, his lips inches from mine, his gaze absolute.
“Yes,” he breathed. “Now, take my arm. Let’s go show Boston its new nightmare.”
***
The flashbulbs were blinding.
The moment Adrian’s black Maybach pulled up to the red carpet outside Boston Symphony Hall, the media exploded. Shouted questions overlapped with the rhythmic, mechanical clicking of dozens of cameras.
*“Mr. Moretti! Who is the woman?”*
*“Adrian! Is it true the Santoro alliance is dead?”*
*“Who are you wearing tonight, Miss Brooks?”*
Adrian ignored them all. He stepped out of the vehicle, offering me a gloved hand. I placed my trembling fingers in his. The moment my high heels hit the red carpet, Adrian pulled me close against his side, his arm locking firmly around my waist.
The warmth of his body steadied me. I forced my shoulders back, lifted my chin, and let my training in high-society hospitality take over. I smiled. A serene, enigmatic, slightly haughty smile that made the paparazzi go wild.
Inside the grand hall, beneath crystal chandeliers that dripped light onto marble floors, the music was playing, but the room went noticeably quieter the moment we crossed the threshold.
Hundreds of heads turned. Men in tailored black tie and women dripping in emeralds and pearls froze mid-conversation.
To my left, I saw Caterina Moretti holding court among a group of elderly socialites. When she saw me, her eyes narrowed with sharp assessment, but she offered a slow, deliberate nod of approval. I had passed her visual inspection.
“Keep walking,” Adrian murmured near my ear, his lips brushing my temple in what looked like an affectionate whisper. “Matteo Rossi is at the two o’clock position by the grand staircase.”
I kept my smile fixed and subtly shifted my gaze.
Standing near the marble balustrade was a younger man, perhaps thirty-two, with slicked-back dark hair, a narrow, predatory face, and eyes like polished obsidian. Unlike Adrian’s calm, imposing stillness, Matteo Rossi radiated a jittery, dangerous volatility. Beside him stood a stunning brunette in a deep violet gown—Isabella Santoro, the woman Adrian was supposed to marry.
Isabella looked at me as if she wanted to rip the diamonds from my neck and use them to blind me.
“Adrian,” a smooth, accented voice called out.
Matteo walked toward us, a champagne flute dangling casually from his fingers. The crowd naturally parted for him, people sensing the impending collision between two tectonic plates of Boston’s underworld.
“Matteo,” Adrian greeted him, his arm remaining possessively around my waist. His grip didn't tighten, but I could feel the coiled tension in his muscles, like a panther preparing to pounce.
“I was beginning to think you wouldn't make it,” Matteo said, his eyes scanning Adrian before dropping to me. A slow, greasy grin spread across his face. “Especially after the… unfortunate structural damage to your west lodge yesterday morning.”
“Old houses require occasional demolition,” Adrian replied smoothly. “I find it’s best to clear out the trash before it rots.”
Matteo’s jaw ticked, but he forced a chuckle. He turned his full, predatory attention directly onto me.
“And who is this exquisite creature?” Matteo murmured, stepping uncomfortably close. He extended a hand toward mine. “I don't believe we’ve been introduced. I’m Matteo.”
I didn't flinch. I had handled arrogant, entitled billionaires for five years at luxury galas; a mobster in an expensive suit was just a criminal with better tailoring.
Before Matteo’s hand could touch mine, Adrian smoothly stepped half an inch forward, subtly blocking Matteo’s reach with his broad shoulder.
“This is Elena Brooks,” Adrian announced, his voice carrying clearly across the quieted ballroom. “My fiancée.”
Matteo’s hand remained suspended in the air. His smile finally slipped, replaced by an ugly, venomous sneer.
“Elena Brooks,” Matteo echoed softly. “A lovely name. But Boston is a dangerous city for fragile things, Miss Brooks. Accidents happen every day. A sudden fire. A stray bullet. A tragic fall from a penthouse balcony.”
The threat was so blatant the hair on my arms stood on end.
Before Adrian could draw blood, I tilted my head, looked Matteo Rossi dead in his black eyes, and let out a light, melodic laugh that echoed through the surrounding silence.
“Mr. Rossi,” I said, my tone sweet, condescending, and utterly fearless. “Fragile things don't survive eighteen hours coordinating high-society functions for people like you. And they certainly don't choose a man like Adrian unless they know how to handle the dark. If you’re worried about tragic falls… I suggest you watch your own step tonight.”
A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers nearby.
Adrian looked down at me, and for the first time since I had met him, a look of genuine, unfiltered awe crossed his face, quickly replaced by a dark, triumphant grin.
Matteo’s face flushed a deep, furious crimson. He withdrew his hand, his eyes burning into mine with murderous intent.
“Enjoy the music, Adrian,” Matteo spat, turning on his heel and disappearing into the crowd.
Adrian watched him walk away. Then he leaned down, his lips pressing firmly, lingeringly against the sensitive curve of my throat, making my knees go weak.
May you like
“*Dio mio*, Elena,” he groaned softly, his voice thick with desire and amusement against my skin. “Remind me never to make an enemy out of you.”
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