Chapter 10 - The Queen of Chicago
The orchestra began to play a slow, sweeping waltz.
Adrien led Emily into the center of the grand dance floor. The surrounding guests backed away, giving them the entire expanse of polished mahogany beneath the central chandelier.
Adrien wrapped his right arm around her waist—his hand resting firmly, possessively against the curve of her hip through the midnight-blue silk. He took her left hand in his, raising it between them, their fingers intertwining naturally.
They began to move.
Emily spun across the floor, her dress flaring out like a dark blue flower in full bloom. The heavy silk rustled softly with every step, every turn, catching the light in brilliant, breathtaking flashes.
She didn't look at the crowd. She didn't look at the senators, the bankers, or the socialites who were watching her with newfound, profound respect.
She looked only at her husband.
She saw the raw, uncompromising devotion in his dark eyes—the look of a man who had conquered a city, but who only truly cared about winning the heart of the woman in his arms.
"You were right," Emily murmured as he spun her beneath his arm and pulled her flush against his chest once more.
"About what?" Adrien asked, his chest expanding against hers.
"Midnight blue," she whispered, her eyes glowing with happiness. "It really does make winter look elegant."
Adrien let out a low, deep laugh—a sound so filled with genuine warmth that several older board members near the balcony exchanged amazed looks.
"You make the whole world look elegant, Emily," Adrien said, stepping closer, closing the tiny distance between them right in the middle of the dance floor.
He didn't care that three hundred people were watching. He didn't care that news cameras were flashing outside the glass doors.
Adrien bent his head down and pressed his lips against hers in a slow, deep, breathtaking kiss that made the entire ballroom dissolve into a blur of light and shadow around them.
When he pulled back, Emily’s cheeks were flushed a soft, beautiful pink, her lips parted in a quiet gasp.
"They're going to talk about this kiss tomorrow," she whispered, a playful, confident smile touching her lips for the first time.
Adrien smiled back—a sharp, dangerous, hopelessly devoted smile.
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"Let them talk," he whispered against her ear, his hand tightening around her soft waist, holding her close as the music reached its grand climax. "Let them talk for the next fifty years, my queen."
And as the dance continued late into the night, no one in Chicago ever dared to speak a cruel word about the Mafia Boss’s wife again.
