Now, standing in this ballroom surrounded by Chicago’s most powerful and dangerous people, I understand the full scope of what Luca has planned for me.
This isn’t just about attending a charity gala.
This is about being displayed.
It’s proof that Luca Marchetti has evolved beyond simple criminal enterprise into something more sophisticated, more legitimate, more untouchable.
Luca stands beside me in a tuxedo that makes him look more handsome than he already is, his hand resting possessively at the small of my back.
To anyone watching, we look like the perfect couple—handsome crime lord and his beautiful fiancée, madly in love and embarking on a life together.
The reality is his fingers press just slightly too hard against my spine, a constant reminder that I’m here because he allows it, that I exist entirely at his discretion.
“Smile,cara,” he murmurs against my ear, his breath warm against my neck.
The intimacy of it makes my skin crawl, even as some traitorous part of my body registers the warmth, the masculine woodsy scent of his cologne.
I hate that I notice.
I hate that any part of me responds to the man who’s destroyed my life, who’s holding me captive, who plans to use me then hide me away until he’s ready to trot me out again.
I hatehim.
“Viktor Torrino is watching,” he continues, his voice low and intimate enough that anyone observing would think he’s whispering sweet nothings. “And you’re supposed to be madly in love with me.”
I paste on a smile that feels like it might crack my face in half.
Across the room, I can see an older man studying us with sharp blue eyes—Viktor Torrino, I assume.
The man whose territorial alliance requires my captivity, whose business arrangements necessitate this elaborate stupid fucking charade.
“He looks pleased,” Luca continues, his voice pleased.
God, I wish I could do anything other than please him.
“You’re playing your role beautifully.”
Playing. That’s exactly what this is.
It’s a performance where I have no choice but to deliver the lines Luca has written for me.
The ballroom is packed with Chicago’s elite, and I recognize faces from news reports and whispered stories.
Politicians whose campaigns probably run on mob money.
Business leaders who’ve built empires through connections to organized crime.
Society women dripping in jewelry that could feed entire neighborhoods, blissfully ignorant—or willfully blind—to where their husbands’ money comes from.
The charity we’re supposedly here to support is something about children’s hospitals, but the irony isn’t lost on me.
These people wouldn’t know actual charity if it bit them in the ass.
This is a networking event disguised as philanthropy, a place where deals are made and alliances are forged while everyone pretends to care about sick children.
“Mr. Marchetti!” a voice cuts through my harsh thoughts, and I turn to see a man approaching.
He has silver hair, an expensive suit, and the kind of smile that looks practiced. “What a pleasure to finally meet the woman who captured your heart.”
