Chapter 4 - The Syndicate Gala
Within three days, Adrian’s health made a miraculous turnaround. Without the daily micro-doses of toxin, the color returned to his skin, his appetite surged, and his brutal energy was fully restored.
Emma cooked him wholesome, rustic meals—hearty beef stews, garlic-roasted chicken, and fresh, untainted coffee brewed from beans she roasted herself in a cast-iron skillet. Adrian ate everything she made with the hunger of a man who had been starving in a desert.
On Thursday morning, a team of high-end stylists arrived at Emma’s door carrying garment bags.
“What is this?” Emma asked, backing away.
Adrian leaned against the doorframe, watching her with amused dark eyes. “Tonight is the annual Black Rose Gala. Chicago’s entire underworld and political elite will be there. Marco thinks I am bedridden and weak. We are going to show them I am entirely whole.”
“We?” Emma squeaked. “Adrian, look at me! I don’t belong at a mafia ball! I don't fit into runway dresses, I don't know how to walk in six-inch heels, and—”
Adrian stepped into the room, silencing her by placing his warm hand gently over hers.
“You are coming with me,” he said, his voice deep and resonant. “Because I want them to see the woman who kept me alive. And Emma… stop hiding behind oversized sweaters. You are breathtaking.”
Two hours later, Emma stood in front of the full-length mirror.
She wore a custom emerald-green satin gown that hugged every curve of her body—her full hips, her soft waist, the swell of her bosom—flowing down into an elegant, sweeping train. Her chestnut hair was pinned up in soft curls, diamond earrings sparkled at her lobes, and her cheeks were naturally flushed.
When she walked into the living room, Marcus lowered his head in respect, and Adrian stopped dead in his tracks.
Adrian wore a bespoke tuxedo that made him look like a dark, ruthless king. But as he looked at Emma, his breath caught audibly.
“Do I look ridiculous?” Emma whispered, fidgeting with her hem.
Adrian walked over, took her hand, and brought it to his lips, kissing her knuckles.
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“You look like an empress,” he said huskily. “Let’s go terrify Chicago.”
***