Chapter 66 66

Chapter 66 66
VIVIAN'S POV

Gala day came sooner than I would have liked. I woke up feeling ill and viciously anxious, no amount of deep breaths settling my roiling stomach. This was it. The race that would make or break it all.

At noon, a crew of stylists rolled into the house. Hair, makeup, nails. Each note cared for with the exacting detail typically afforded only to royalty or highly overpriced items. I took my place in the chair like a doll, allowing them to work, doing my best not to think about what was next.

The dress was emerald green, glistening and expensive. The fabric was like water on my skin, tailored to my form in a way that made me feel simultaneously powerful and vulnerable. It clung to the curve of her body, its neckline low enough to flirt with daring while avoiding impropriety.

“The Don picked it himself,” a stylist said, her tone approving. "He has excellent taste."

Of course he did. Dominic owned me now, even my clothes. Even this dress was ownership, it showed everyone I was his in a way that they could see.

Celeste walked in as the makeup artist was putting some finishing touches on my face. Resplendent in a navy gown and dark hair swept up, she was every inch the old hand mafia wife.

"You look beautiful," she said.

"I look terrified."

"That too. But beautiful terrified." She was sitting at the edge of bed, observing me. "Is it always like this? Being a mafia wife?"

"The fear? The performance? Yes."

"How do you handle it?"

There was a pause while Celeste thought. "You learn to separate yourself. The real you. And the one you perform for the world.”

“What if I can’t put them back?”

She mellowed slightly; a look that seemed like pity crossed her face. "Then you've lost yourself. And then it takes a dangerous turn.”

Before I could question her, Dominic walked in. He looked resplendent in his black tuxedo, every bit the powerful Don. Commanding. Dangerous. Devastatingly attractive in a way that drew my breath from my lungs even after everything he’d broken of me.

“Get out of here,” he said to the stylists.

They dissolved on the spot, snatching up their bundles and vanishing like mist. Even Celeste excused herself softly, closing the door behind her.

Dominic strolled around me, examining my body's every curve as if he were a general before the battle reviewing his troops. His gray eyes took in the dress, my hair, my makeup. Looking for flaws.

"Perfect," he said finally. "Almost."

He took a jewelry box out of his jacket and handed it to her. From it she took an emerald necklace to match the dress perfectly as its stones sparkled in the light. It must have been worth more than my family’s house.

He reached around the back of my neck, his fingers grazing the skin as he clasped it. It thumped cold and heavy against my clavicles. It borrowed less from jewelry and more from the collar. It is a badge of ownership that all may see.

“Just remember everything I’ve taught you,” he said, pressing his hand against my throat, just below the necklace. His fingers were warm on my skin as he positioned the cold metal. "Smile. Be charming. And don’t let them see you sweat.”

He squeezed a tiny bit harder, just hard enough to take one’s breath away. “And if you would fail, falter even once, I may not be able to protect you in what follows.

The venue was spectacular. The Art Institute of Chicago, rented out for the night. Priceless paintings on the walls, strategically lit sculptures and flowing champagne. Galleries were filled with Chicago’s elite — politicians mixing with business magnates mingling with criminals. All pretending that they were different from each other when actually they were all the same.

Power recognizing power.

Dominic's hand never left me. It sat possessively around my waist, across my lower back, rested on an arm. Leading me through the room, nudging me toward important people, managing every exchange.

“My wife, Vivian,” he said repeatedly, presenting me to senators and C.E.O.s and other men whose names I’d heard on the news.

I smiled. Shook hands. Discussed the weather, the art, the champagne. Playing the part to perfection, nailing every beat. The ideal mob wife, charming and beautiful and absolutely non-threatening.

But my eyes were roving the audience, searching for Morrison. Looking for threats. Hunting for the day when it would all collapse.

“Take it easy,” Dominic whispered into my ear. "You're doing well."

It was almost like praise, and the closest thing to it I’d had from him in days. I attempted to have it calm the flutter in my stomach, but that didn’t work.

We flowed through the galleries, Dominic grift-mastered the room. Contributions were delivered with low-key nods.
Handshakes were firm and alliances hardened. This was his medium, I could see. No violence and blood, the hallmarks that earned him his nickname. This. Power and influence used as finely honed weapons.

Then I saw Morrison. Standing next to a Monet, holding a champagne glass, staring at us. His gaze caught mine across the crowded room.

“He’s inside,” I said, my voice tense.

"I know. Ignore him."

"He's coming over—"

"Then we give him a show."

Before I could ask what he was talking about, Dominic drew me into him and kissed me. It wasn't gentle or sweet. It was possessive and declaring, a public acknowledgment of ownership. His hand clamped around the back of my neck, keeping me in place as he took what he needed.

When he pulled his head back, Morrison was also there, barely three feet away. That satisfied look on his face.

"Mr. and Mrs. DeLaurentis. What a loving display." It was evident from the energetic way his tone returned to it that he thought little of its love. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

“Not in the least,” Dominic replied silkily, an arm circling my waist. “We were talking about how lucky we have been. To have found each other."

"Yes. Pretty whirlwind romance, I hear.” Morrison focused all of his attention on me. “Now, Mrs. DeLaurentis, how did you ever meet?”

My mouth went dry. This was it. The test. This was the moment everything we had worked for and everything that mattered came down to.

"Through my father," I replied, trying hard to maintain my voice steady. "About a year ago."

“And it was love at first sight?”

"Not exactly. But we connected."

"Connected. How romantic." Sarcasm was dripping all over Morrison’s tone to suggest he didn’t believe a word of it. "Your father would have been so proud. Marrying off his daughter to such a wealthy man.”

“Irish is being humble,” Dominic added with a prolix smile. "I pursued her relentlessly. Just wouldn’t take no for anything.”

"I'm sure. You’re a man who takes what he wants.”
"Always."

“Even if what you want is in someone else’s grasp?”

Th question hovered, pregnant with double meaning, between us. Was he talking about me? The business deals the FBI was looking into? About something else entirely?

“I don’t like to appropriate what is not my own,” Dominic replied in a voice that was deadly quiet. "I take what's mine."

Morrison scowled at me, his eyes keen and appraising. "And you, Mrs. DeLaurentis. Do you belong to your husband?”

"I—"

“She’s my wife.” Dominic interrupted me before I could finish. "That answer speaks for itself."

"Does it?"

Morrison reached for his phone, tapped the screen a couple of times, then held it up so we could see. My blood went cold in my veins.

It was a picture of me and Veronica. And both smiling together to the camera. Snapped, it turned out years ago at some family gathering that I barely remembered. But the part that really made my heart stop was how much we looked alike. Roughly the same, if you didn’t know us well.

"Interesting, isn't it?" Morrison said casually. "How similar you two look."

She is my sister,” I stuttered, barely audible.

"Yes. Your older sister." Morrison pocketed his cell phone, but he kept staring at my face. “Who was going to marry Mr. DeLaurentis.”

“But she didn’t,” Dominic’s voice was ominously steady. His hand pressed harder on my waist, fingers biting into my hip to leave a mark. "I married Vivian. The woman I wanted."

"Did you? Or did you go through the list and say, ‘Whoever gets to the altar I’ll call my bride or my groom’?”

Morrison slipped his phone into his pocket, smiling now. "Enjoy your evening. We'll talk again soon. Very soon."

Then he turned and walked down the street, melting into a sea of wealthy donors and crooked politicians. I stood transfixed, trembling from head to foot. Dominic's hand was on my waist, steadying me.

"Breathe," he commanded quietly.

I tried. My lungs felt too small, as if they couldn’t inhale enough air. The emerald necklace was clogging my throat.

"He knows," I whispered.

"He suspects. There's a difference."

"What do we do?"

Dominic looked around the room, suspicion in his eyes. "We finish the evening. We smile. We perform. And then we go home and try to figure out how to bury this before it buries us.”