Chapter 2 - The Art of the TrapBy Tuesday afternoon, my old life felt like a distant, hazy memory.
The East Wing of the Castelli estate was larger than my entire apartment building. My new bedroom featured vaulted ceilings, french doors leading to a private balcony overlooking the lake, and a walk-in closet that currently held more designer tags than I had seen in my entire thirty years of life.
Yet, despite the silk sheets and marble bathroom, I felt like a prisoner in a gilded cage.
"Hold still, signorina," a frantic voice snapped in Italian-accented English.
A tiny, older woman with a mouthful of pins—Madame Elena, one of Milan's top private couturiers—was currently swathing me in yards of heavy ivory silk and delicate French lace. Two assistants fluttered around her like nervous hummingbirds, adjusting the bodice of the custom engagement gown that had been rushed across the Atlantic in record time.
I stood on a raised wooden platform in the center of the grand salon, staring at my reflection in a gilded three-panel mirror.
The dress was breathtaking. It clung to my curves in a way that felt entirely foreign—sculpting my waist, smoothing my silhouette, and making me look like a classical painting rather than an overworked catering coordinator.
"Magnificent," a voice drawled from the doorway.
I looked up to see Dante Castelli leaning against the doorframe, a glass of amber whiskey in his hand, watching the fitting with an amused smirk.
"Do you mind?" I snapped, clutching the edges of the unfinished bodice to my chest. "Some of us are currently being sewn into garments against our will."
Dante chuckled, taking a slow sip of his drink. "Relax, Harper. If Dominic saw you right now, he'd probably cancel his afternoon meetings and lock you in his tower. You look like a goddess who decided to slum it as a commoner."
"I am a commoner," I said, glaring at him. "And this whole thing is absurd. When are we dropping the act? How long does Nonna Rosa have to believe we're madly in love before you guys let me go back to my apartment?"
Dante's smile faded slightly, replaced by a more serious, calculating expression. He stepped into the room, waving a hand to dismiss Madame Elena and her assistants. Gratefully, the women scurried out, leaving Dante and me alone in the vast, sunlit salon.
"The act doesn't end when Nonna stops believing it, Harper," Dante said quietly, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "It ends when Dominic says it ends. And knowing my cousin, he doesn't let go of things he claims."
"I'm not a thing, Dante. I'm a person."
"To the Chicago underworld, you are the most valuable piece on the board right now," Dante said, stepping closer. "Victoria Marino's father—Salvatore Marino—has been trying to muscle in on our shipping ports for months. By publicly claiming you, Dominic didn't just reject an alliance with the Marinos; he humiliated them. Salvatore is furious. Which means your old life isn't safe anymore. If you walked out those gates tonight, the Marinos would grab you before you reached the highway to use as leverage against Dominic."
A cold chill washed over me. "You're lying."
"I am the family lawyer, Harper. I don't lie about security threats," Dante said bluntly. "You are safer inside these walls with a ring on your finger than you would be anywhere else in the United States. So my advice? Learn to play the part. Because Dominic Castelli has decided you belong to him, and in our world, that's a permanent sentence."
Before I could process the terrifying weight of his words, the heavy double doors swung open again.
Dominic walked in.
He had just come from a meeting; he wore a tailored charcoal three-piece suit, his silk tie slightly loosened at the collar, his jacket draped over one arm. He stopped dead in his tracks the moment his eyes landed on me.
The room seemed to shrink.
His amber gaze traveled slowly from the floor-length hem of the ivory lace dress, up my waist, over the fitted bodice, and finally locked onto my wide, startled eyes. For a fraction of a second, something raw, dark, and utterly possessive flashed across his face.
Dante cleared his throat, pushing off the doorframe. "I'll leave you two alone to play house. Don't break the furniture; it's imported 18th-century mahogany."
With a smirk, Dante slipped out of the room, leaving Dominic and me in charged, suffocating silence.
Dominic started walking toward me. His footsteps echoed softly against the hardwood floor. He didn't say a word until he was standing right at the edge of the wooden platform, looking up at me.
"Well?" his deep voice vibrated through the quiet room. "Does it fit?"
"It feels like armor," I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Dominic reached out, his warm fingers gently brushing against the lace at my shoulder, sending a jolt of heat through my skin. "Good. You're going to need it."
He stepped up onto the platform, closing the distance between us until I could feel the heat radiating from his chest. His amber eyes searched my face, intensely focused.
"Dante told you about the Marinos, didn't he?" Dominic asked softly.
"He said I'm a target," I replied, my voice shaking slightly. "He said you dragged me into your war."
"I didn't drag you into my war, Harper. My war was already here," Dominic corrected, his thumb tracing the line of my jawbone, feather-light yet inescapable. "When I woke up with you sleeping against my chest Sunday morning, for the first time in ten years, I didn't think about guns, territory, or blood. I just thought about how soft your hair was."
I stared at him, my breath catching in my throat. There was no mockery in his voice, no mafia boss bravado—just a quiet, dangerous honesty that terrified me more than any threat.
"This is insane, Dominic," I whispered. "We don't know each other."
"Then let's fix that," he murmured, his gaze dropping to my lips. "We have ten days until the entire city watches us exchange vows. Use every single one of those days to learn who I am. Because I promise you, Harper... by the time we stand at that altar, you won't want to run."
May you like
Before I could form a single coherent reply, his head dipped down, and his lips brushed against mine.
It wasn't a tentative, fake kiss for an audience. It was slow, deliberate, and undeniably real—a spark that set fire to every defensive wall I had spent thirty years building.
