Chapter 3: The Gala Of Thorns
The red silk felt like a second skin—cold, sleek, and heavy with the weight of the man who had bought it. As Elena stood before the floor-to-length mirror, she barely recognized the woman staring back. The dress was backless, plunging dangerously low, and cinched at her waist like a velvet vice.
A knock sounded, and Dante stepped in. He had traded his casual look for a charcoal tuxedo that made him look like a dark god of the underworld. He stopped behind her, his gaze meeting hers in the reflection.
"You look like a De Luca," he murmured, his hands coming to rest on her bare shoulders. His touch was electric, a startling contrast to the icy demeanor he maintained. He draped a necklace of blood-colored rubies around her throat. "Tonight, you are not just a guest. You are my statement."
"A statement of what?" Elena asked, her voice trembling as he fastened the clasp.
That I have found something worth keeping," he whispered against the shell of her ear. "And that anyone who looks at you too long will bleed for it."
The gala was held at a private estate on Long Island, a sprawling mansion surrounded by men in black suits with bulges under their jackets. As they entered, the room fell into a suffocating silence. Hundreds of eyes—predatory, curious, and envious—tracked their every move.
Dante didn't lead her; he claimed her, his hand firmly anchored on the small of her back.
"Dante," a voice boomed. A portly man with silver hair and a cruel mouth approached. "I didn't believe the rumors. The Great Wolf of New York finally leashed?"
Careful, Lorenzo," Dante's voice dropped to a lethal octave. "A wolf only lets one person close. Everyone else is just meat."
Elena felt the tension radiating off him like heat from a furnace. She realized then that this wasn't just a party; it was a battlefield. Dante was parading her to signal his dominance, and she was the prize at the center of the crosshairs.
As the night wore on, Dante was pulled away for a "private whisper" by a high-ranking Consigliere. He leaned in, his eyes burning into hers. "Stay by the bar. Do not speak to anyone. I'll be back in five minutes."
But five minutes was all it took for the shadows to move.
As Elena stood alone, sipping water to calm her racing heart, a young man with a jagged scar across his cheek leaned in beside her. "You're Rossi's girl, aren't you?" he hissed. "The one he sold to save his own skin?"
Elena stiffened. "I'm his wife."
You're a collateral beauty," the man sneered. "And when Dante is done playing with his new toy, my family will be there to pick up the pieces. Tell me, does he treat you like a queen, or just another piece of property?"
Before Elena could respond, a heavy hand dropped onto the stranger's shoulder. The air in the room seemed to vanish.
"She is my life," Dante's voice sliced through the air, vibrating with a terrifying, quiet rage. He didn't pull a gun. He didn't raise his voice. He simply squeezed the man's shoulder until a sickening pop echoed through the immediate circle. "And you just looked at my life with filth in your eyes