The heat staggers me. The size of this want—contained for twenty-four hours in a body trained for restraint—detonates in the tiny, innocent room.
I bite down on her lower lip. I suck the swollen flesh into my mouth. One hand slides around to her stomach. A flat palm presses against her bare abdomen. The silk parts.
She is mine. The diagnosis is confirmed. The disease is terminal.
A sharp burst of static slices through my right ear.
Nick’s voice barks through the encrypted comms.
“Surgeon. Status check. Dominic’s tailors are at the front gate. Gala prep starts right now. Lock down the East Wing.”
The tactical order hits like a bucket of ice water.
The kiss breaks.
My mouth pulls away from hers. My hands stay on her waist. Letting go of the physical connection is not an option I’m willing to take.
Heavy, ragged breathing fills the quiet air. Rapid respiration echoes against the yellow walls.
Lucia looks wrecked. Her lips are swollen, wet, and bright red. Her dark eyes are glazed with unspent lust. Her chest heaves against the armor.
I lower my head. My forehead rests against hers.
One hand lifts from her waist. My rough thumb brushes gently over her bruised lower lip.
The MC’s plan must stay secret. Warning her about Ferraro risks the operation.
But she will not walk into that ballroom feeling like a pawn.
“Put your dress on tonight, Lucia.” The dark command is an unbreakable vow. “Smile for the cameras. Drink the expensive champagne.”
A hard, lingering kiss presses to the exact corner of her mouth.
“But know this.” The whisper scrapes against her heated skin. “No one is putting a cage around you ever again. I will cut their fucking hands off first.”
8
LUCIA
The dress is a size fourteen. It’s the blood-red silk Dominic ordered me to wear—a color designed to mark me as a target. I am absolutely not a size fourteen. Dominic knows the exact measurements of my body. He had this gown delivered to my apartment this morning with a handwritten note.
Wear this tonight. No alterations.
The zipper sits halfway up my back. Twenty minutes of shallow sips of air finally forces the heavy fabric to surrender enough to close. It has not surrendered much. The thick seams pull across my hips. The rigid neckline cuts into the soft flesh at the tops of my breasts.
It creates a spilling line of skin. My fingers tug at it constantly.
It’s structured and obscenely expensive, but the seams are screaming. The designer crafted this piece for a woman who takes up significantly less space in the world. That is the entire point. Dominic does not send clothes out of brotherly care. He sends clothes designed as calculated, physical punishments. He dresses me to force a hyper-awareness of my own body.He wants to remind me exactly how much of me requires containment.
Two hundred people pack the grand ballroom of the Costa Foundation annual Gala. Massive crystal chandeliers scatter fractured light across the vaulted ceiling. A hired string quartet plays Vivaldi in the corner. The elegant, sterile music provides the perfect cover. Men in ten-thousand-dollar tailored suits negotiate territory deals and drug shipments over trays of miniature crab cakes.
The air suffocates. It reeks of aged bourbon, sharp designer cologne, and white lilies already turning brown at the edges.
I press my back against the east wall. A tall crystal glass of gin and tonic sweats in my right hand. The liquid is untouched.
My eyes scan the crowded room. The tactical protocol Dominic drilled into my brain since childhood runs on a continuous loop.
Identify the money. Identify the threat. Identify the exit.