Chapter 3 - Silk, Diamonds, and Shadows
The boutique in the Cultural District had been locked to the public for three hours. Outside, two black town cars with tinted windows idled on Penn Avenue. Inside, bolts of silk, satin, and heavy brocade were scattered across velvet settees.
Madame Laurent, an exacting French woman who usually dressed the wives of governors and steel magnates, circled Sadie with measuring tape in hand, humming thoughtfully.
"The waist is tiny compared to the hips," Madame Laurent murmured, jotting down numbers. "The bust is magnificent. Most of these high-society sticks starve themselves until they look like coat hangers. *Mon dieu*, finally a woman with flesh!"
Sadie stood on the circular pedestal, staring at herself in the three-way mirror. She felt naked, even in her slip. Every roll, every curve that Boyd had pinched and mocked was on full display.
*Look at those thighs,* Boyd’s cruel voice echoed in the back of her mind. *You look like a sow. You think any real man wants to touch that?*
The dressing room curtain was pulled back. Marcelo walked in, holding an espresso cup. He was dressed in a crisp black button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, revealing the dark, intricate ink of dragons and thorned vines covering his forearms.
He stopped dead in his tracks.
Sadie instinctively moved her hands to cover her stomach, ducking her head. "Don't look. Madame Laurent is still pinning..."
Marcelo ignored her protest. He set his coffee cup on a side table and walked straight up to the pedestal. His eyes were dark, burning with a hunger that made Sadie’s breath catch in her throat.
"Take your hands away," he commanded softly.
"Marcelo, please—"
"Take them away, Sadie."
Trembling, she lowered her arms.
Marcelo stepped onto the edge of the pedestal. His fingers grazed her hip, pressing gently into the soft curve above her thigh. A jolt of electricity shot straight down Sadie’s spine.
"Never hide yourself from me," Marcelo whispered, his voice vibrating against her ear. "Do you have any idea how intoxicating you are? How much real power there is in a woman who looks like you?"
He looked over at Madame Laurent. "Emerald green. Heavy velvet. Off-the-shoulder, fitted through the bodice, falling into a mermaid sweep. And cut the neckline low enough to display the Vieri heirloom emeralds."
"It will be magnificent, Don Marcelo," the designer said with an appreciative smile.
Six hours later, Sadie stood before the mirror in the primary master suite of the Shadyside estate.
The emerald velvet dress hugged every contour of her body like a second skin. It cinched her narrow waist and framed her lush curves in deep, regal splendor. The bruises on her ribs were hidden beneath a silk-lined medical corset that supported her posture without causing pain. Around her throat sat a necklace of raw-cut Colombian emeralds encased in platinum, glittering with cold green fire.
Her dark hair had been styled into loose, elegant waves that cascaded over one shoulder, and her makeup emphasized her almond-shaped hazel eyes and full, painted lips.
She didn't look like Sadie Gable the hotel maid. She looked like an empress.
A soft knock came at the door, and Marcelo stepped in. He wore a midnight-blue tuxedo that made his broad shoulders look even wider, his dark hair slicked back with ruthless elegance.
He stopped, his eyes drinking her in. For the first time since she had met him, Marcelo Vieri looked momentarily rendered speechless.
"You look..." He cleared his throat, stepping forward and extending his arm. "Breathtaking."
"I'm terrified," Sadie confessed, resting her gloved hand on his forearm. "What if I trip? What if I say the wrong thing?"
"You won't trip," Marcelo murmured, covering her hand with his own. "And if anyone insults you, Sadie, you don't need to say a word. You simply look at me, and I will handle the rest."
The Saint Anthony Gala at the Grand Concourse was a gathering of Pittsburgh’s untouchables—corrupt judges, wealthy industrialists, and the heads of the five syndicate families that carved up the rust belt.
As Marcelo and Sadie stepped through the double oak doors, the hum of two hundred conversations died instantly.
Heads turned. Whispers rippled across the room like a wave through tall grass.
*Is that Vieri?*
*Who is that woman on his arm?*
*Where is Boyd Gable?*
*Look at the Vieri emeralds... she’s wearing the blood gems!*
Sadie kept her chin up, just as Marcelo had instructed during the ride over. She felt the heavy, hungry weight of his arm around her waist, guiding her through the sea of tuxedos and evening gowns with effortless dominance.
"Don Marcelo," a booming voice called out.
An older man with slick white hair and a bulbous nose stepped into their path, flanked by two hulking bodyguards. Don Dominic Moretti—head of the North Side faction and Marcelo’s oldest, most bitter rival.
"Moretti," Marcelo greeted smoothly, raising his champagne flute. "I see you managed to secure a table despite your recent losses in the Strip."
Moretti’s face flushed purple, but his eyes quickly darted to Sadie, lingering lecherously on her low-cut neckline. "And who is this luscious creature? I didn't know you had an appetite for... real women, Marcelo. Usually, your escorts look like they'd snap in a strong breeze."
Sadie felt Marcelo’s fingers tighten against her hip, a warning tremor of deadly intent.
Before Marcelo could speak, Sadie tilted her head, her sharp eyes catching sight of a discreet gold lapel pin on Moretti’s jacket—a crest featuring an anvil and a hammer.
The exact same seal she had scrubbed off a set of corporate stationery Boyd had carelessly thrown in the trash two weeks ago.
*Iron City Holdings.*
Sadie’s mind raced. Her years of being invisible as a cleaner—the invisible ghost who emptied the trash, dusted the desks, and listened to executives talking when they thought no one was paying attention—kicked in with crystal clarity.
"You're Dominic Moretti," Sadie said, her voice clear, rich, and carrying over the quiet murmur of the crowd.
Moretti smiled patronizingly. "I am, my dear. And you are?"
"I’m the woman who owns the Lawrenceville property you’ve been trying to steal through Boyd Gable," Sadie said without flinching.
The smile vanished from Moretti’s face as if struck by a whip.
The surrounding guests gasped. Marcelo glanced down at Sadie, his eyes flaring with raw, fierce admiration.
"I’d recognize that Iron City Holdings logo anywhere, Don Moretti," Sadie continued smoothly, taking a small sip of her sparkling cider. "Boyd left the forged deed papers on our kitchen counter. Next time you try to illegally seize riverfront property for your illegal barge smuggling operation, you might want to pick a front man who doesn't leave his loan documents in a laundry basket."
A dead silence descended upon the grand hall.
Moretti’s jaw worked soundlessly, his face turning an apoplectic shade of crimson. "You insolent little—"
Marcelo stepped forward, placing himself between Moretti and Sadie. The warmth in his demeanor was utterly gone, replaced by the apex predator of the Pennsylvania underworld.
May you like
"She is my fiancée, Dominic," Marcelo hissed, his voice lethal. "And what belongs to Sadie Gable belongs to the Vieri family. Touch her property, touch her sister, or breathe in her direction again, and the riverfront won't just be a shipping lane. It will be your cemetery."
***