Chapter 42 -
The table went silent. Every head turned toward Christian. He sat with his usual rigid posture, his expression as cold and unreadable as the brother he was now challenging. It was a rare sight to see the brothers united against the Enforcer.
Christian met Leonardo’s glare without flinching. “If she is under guard, what is the harm? We have enough men on the grounds to stop an army. Unless you think your best man cannot handle one woman in a crowd.”
Leonardo’s eyes darkened to the color of a storm over the ocean. He looked at Christian, then at Micheal, his silence more terrifying than any shout. The power dynamic in the room shifted, the tension stretching like a wire ready to snap.
Leonardo shifted his gaze to the far wall, his face a mask of cold calculation. He took a slow breath, the scent of something otherworldly and ancient—leather and tobacco—seeming to flare in the air around him.
“Fine,” Leonardo said at last. The word was a concession, but it sounded like a threat. “She goes. But Matteo does not leave her side for a single second. If she even looks toward a door, she is back in her room.”
Micheal’s grin returned, wide and genuine. “Deal.”
Nia felt the blood rush to her face. She was not a piece of furniture to be moved from room to room. She gripped the edge of the table, her hazel eyes flashing with a spark of the defiance that Leo had previously called bold.
“Do I not get a say in this?” she asked, her voice steady despite the hammer of her heart.
Leonardo’s eyes finally met hers. The weight of his look was suffocating, pinning her to her seat with a ruthless intensity. “No.”
Nia let out a short, bitter laugh. “Typical.”
Micheal leaned over, his elbow nudging her ribs. “This will be fun, you will see. Better than staring at your reflection and talking to the walls.”
Across the table, Lucia’s expression softened. She looked at Nia with a faint, knowing smile. “I will help you find something to wear. We cannot have you showing up to a DeSanto party in sweatpants.”
Don Emilio watched the exchange from the other end of the table, his dark eyes moving from person to person in eerie silence. He said nothing, but the way his fingers drummed against the table suggested he was already getting irritated.
Nia sank back into her chair, her mind racing. She had a chance to be out of her room, in a crowd, with eyes everywhere. It was a victory, but as she met Leonardo’s unyielding gaze, she realized it was a victory he had allowed.
“I have two months left on my deadline,” the voice of the threat from the hallway seemed to echo in her mind. “Two months to produce Alex Navarro or some satisfactory explanation for why the Don's daughter is dead. And if you fail, well.”
“There are others who would be happy to take over the investigation. Others who would not be so gentle with your precious witness.”
“Touch her, and I will kill you.”
“I suggest you pray,” Leo had said finally. “Because I will not be able to stop what comes next.”
The air in the bedroom felt thick with the scent of vanilla candles and the sharp spray of expensive perfume. Lucia stood in the center of the rug, surrounded by a sea of velvet and silk that looked like a raided treasure vault. She held up a black cocktail dress with a predatory sort of glee. The fabric was dark as a moonless night and shimmered with a dangerous, liquid light.
"Try this one," Lucia said, her voice dropping into a low, conspiratorial hum.
Nia looked at the garment and felt a cold shiver of hesitation. "It is too much," she said, her fingers grazing the edge of the silk. "I am a girl from a walk up apartment, not a mafia queen".
Lucia did not flinch. She moved forward with the effortless authority of a woman who had spent her life navigating rooms full of wolves. "It is perfect," she insisted, her amber eyes locking onto Nia with a gaze that felt like a challenge. "Trust me. In this house, your clothes are the only shield you have left".
Nia took the dress behind the folding screen. The silk felt cold against her skin, a stark contrast to the heat rising in her cheeks. When she stepped out, she stopped in front of the full length mirror and felt the breath leave her lungs. She barely recognized the woman staring back. The dress hugged every curve, turning her from a victim into a weapon. Her brunette hair fell in loose waves over one shoulder, and the dark fabric made her hazel eyes look like cut glass.
"You look beautiful," Lucia whispered, her reflection appearing over Nia's shoulder.
Nia traced the line of her collarbone, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. "I look like I belong at one of those parties," she said, her voice sounding foreign to her own ears. "I look like one of you".
"Good," Lucia replied, her expression hardening into a mask of grim satisfaction. "That is exactly the point. Tonight, we do not let them see us bleed".
Nia turned away from her reflection, the weight of the two week deadline pressing in on her from every shadow in the room. She thought of Leo and the way he had looked at her in the study, his gray eyes a storm of duty and something far more lethal. She was going into a den of vipers, and for the first time, she felt like she might actually have teeth.
"I suggest you pray," Leo had said finally. "Because I will not be able to stop what comes next".
~
The west wing had been purged of its sterile, museum-like silence. In its place lived a pulse of heavy bass that vibrated through the marble floors and into the soles of Nia’s feet. Michael had transformed the space into a den of illicit luxury. The air was a haze of expensive vapor, the scent of imported gin, and the underlying, sharp bite of men who lived by the blade.
Nia moved through the crowd, feeling the eyes of the Underworld crawl over her skin. Made men with thick necks and tailored suits stood in tight circles, their laughter sounding like gravel grinding together. Associates with hungry expressions hovered at the edges, and women in silk dresses that cost more than Nia’s old life draped themselves over the dangerous men of The Cimmera.
"Stay close," Matteo murmured. He was a shadow at her shoulder, his hand never straying far from the weapon hidden beneath his jacket. His brown eyes were twin anchors of disinterest, yet they scanned every face that drifted too near.