Chapter 1 - The Practice Room
The bell above the heavy oak door of Hayes Bespoke chimed at precisely 3:45 PM. Meline Hayes did not need to look up from her cutting table to know who had walked in. The air in the shop always shifted when he arrived—thickening with the scent of costly Italian suede, crushed cedar, and the faint, bitter edge of gunpowder that no amount of expensive cologne could entirely mask.
Lorenzo Moretti, head of the Moretti syndicate and the most feared man in Boston, crossed the hardwood floor with the lazy grace of a predator that owned every inch of territory it stepped on. He wore a charcoal wool coat over a slate-grey vest, tailored to perfection by Meline’s own hands over the past six weeks.
"You are late," Meline said, her chalk marking a precise line along the rich navy silk-velvet laying flat on the oak.
"Business in South Boston," Lorenzo replied quietly. He shed his heavy coat and draped it over the moss-green velvet sofa—the very sofa Meline’s grandmother had imported from Paris fifty years ago. He settled back into the cushions, crossing one long leg over the other. "Tell me something, Meline."
Meline held her breath for a microsecond before smoothing her tape measure across the table. "I am a tailor, Mr. Moretti. Not a oracle."
"Black roses or deep red?" he asked, ignoring her dry tone entirely. His dark eyes, shaded like storm clouds over the Atlantic, fixed on her face. "If a man wishes to express intent—not mere admiration, but an absolute claim—which does a woman prefer?"
Meline’s fingers tightened on her dressmaker’s shears. This was the fourth time this week he had sat on her sofa asking questions that belonged in a romantic paper novel, not a tailor shop specializing in custom formalwear.
At first, Meline had allowed herself to enjoy the game. For six weeks, Lorenzo had ordered suits he did not need. He had sat in her quiet sanctuary, watching her draw patterns, cut fabrics, and adjust hem lines. He asked what kind of music made a room feel intimate, whether rooftop dinners were superior to private wine cellars, and what words a man should use if he wanted a woman to realize her presence rendered every other person in the room invisible.
Meline had felt an electric warmth in her chest during those afternoons. As a plus-size woman who spent her life tucked away behind bolts of silk, working to make thin, wealthy socialites look radiant for their galas, Meline was unaccustomed to being looked at by a man like Lorenzo Moretti. He possessed a terrifying, dark beauty, with razor-sharp cheekbones, silver-flecked black eyes, and a reputation for cold cruelty that made politicians tremble. Yet in her shop, he was quiet, attentive, and seemingly fascinated by her opinions.
Then, two days ago, the morning papers and local gossip columns had exploded with news. Isabella Lombardi—the icy, razor-thin heiress of New York’s oldest syndicate family—had arrived in Boston. She had been spotted dining at Lorenzo’s private estate in Beacon Hill.
The realization had struck Meline like a bucket of ice water. Lorenzo was not courting her. He was using her. He was practicing his charm on the safe, quiet, fat dressmaker who was far beneath his social sphere—testing his romantic gestures on a woman who would never dare to refuse him, so he could perfect his routine before presenting it to the woman he actually intended to marry.
"Red," Meline said, her voice tighter than she intended. "Black roses are for funerals, Mr. Moretti. Unless you intend to bury her."
Lorenzo tilted his head, his dark gaze narrowing slightly. "You sound sharp today, cara."
"I am busy." Meline pinned the shoulder seam of the coat she was working on with deliberate force. "And my name is Miss Hayes."
Lorenzo stood up from the sofa. He moved without making a sound, closing the distance between them until he was standing just on the opposite side of her wide cutting table. His shadow fell over her work.
"Are you jealous?" he asked quietly, a subtle curve appearing at the corner of his lips.
Something inside Meline finally snapped. The humiliation that had been festering in her gut for forty-eight hours boiled over. She ripped the cloth measuring tape from around her neck and slammed it onto the oak surface.
"I am tired of being your rehearsal room," Meline said, her voice trembling with a rage she had kept hidden for weeks.
Lorenzo’s smile evaporated instantly. His face went entirely still, his silver-black eyes locking onto hers with sudden, piercing intensity.
"I am not your dating coach," Meline continued, stepping around the table to face him directly, despite the fact that his towering frame shadowed her completely. "And I am definitely not some lonely fat woman desperate enough for attention that I’ll stand here while you practice on me before you go use it on Isabella Lombardi."
Silence descended upon the shop, so absolute that the ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the corner sounded like hammer blows. For one terrifying second, Meline remembered who she was speaking to. This was a man who had ordered executions; a man whose name made hardened criminals speak in whispers.
Lorenzo stepped closer. The air between them grew unbearably hot. "Meline—"
"Get out," she whispered, her chin held high despite the wild beating of her heart. "Take your half-finished suits and get out of my shop."
Lorenzo stared down at her. Slowly, the harsh line of his jaw softened, replaced by a strange, unreadable expression. "Isabella Lombardi," he said quietly, "has the personality of wet cardboard."
Meline blinked, caught completely off guard. "What?"
"I haven’t had a private conversation with that woman in three years," Lorenzo said. He took another step forward, closing the remaining distance until Meline could feel the heat radiating from his chest. "Her father brought her to Boston to force an alliance I have no intention of making."
"Then what have you been doing here?" Meline breathed, her voice barely audible.
Lorenzo’s gaze dropped briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes. "Learning how to break through the armor of a woman who spends all her time hiding behind her tape measure."
His hand lifted slowly, his long, calloused fingers reaching out as if to cup her cheek—
Clang.
The bronze brass bell above the front entrance rang violently as the door was kicked open.
Lorenzo changed in a fraction of a second. The gentle, intent man standing before Meline vanished, replaced instantly by the lethal syndicate boss. Before Meline could register the sound, Lorenzo had stepped in front of her, placing his broad back between her and the doorway like a wall of solid iron.
Three men stepped into Hayes Bespoke. They wore heavy coats over dark suits, their hands tucked suspiciously deep inside their pockets. The leader had a jagged white scar running along his jaw down into his collarbone, and his eyes were cold and wet like a snake's.
"So," the scarred man said, scanning the room before his eyes locked onto Meline, who was peeking around Lorenzo’s shoulder. "This is the seamstress."
Lorenzo’s voice dropped into a register so low and dangerous it made the windowpanes vibrate. "Leave."
The scarred man gave a sickeningly pleasant smile. "Can't do that, Moretti. Isabella isn’t happy. She doesn't like hearing that the boss of Boston spends four afternoons a week in a cheap tailor shop with a fat nobody instead of dining with her."
Meline’s stomach twisted into a hard knot, but Lorenzo didn't flinch.
"Isabella Lombardi is in no position to send men into my territory," Lorenzo said smoothly, though Meline could feel the tension radiating through his back.
"She didn't send us to kill you, Moretti," the scarred man said, pulling his right hand from his pocket. A sleek silver firearm caught the afternoon light. "She just said we should leave you something to remember her by. A broken set of fingers for the dressmaker, maybe. So she stops sewing your suits."
The two men behind him drew their weapons as well.
Meline’s hand slid backward across her cutting table without her looking. Her fingers searched frantically until they closed around the heavy, sharp steel handles of her twelve-inch Kai dressmaker’s shears.
Lorenzo did not reach for a gun. Instead, he took a slow, deep breath and began counting aloud.
"One."
The scarred man lifted his weapon, aiming directly at Meline’s head.
"Two."
Lorenzo shifted his weight to the balls of his feet.
"Three."
The shop exploded into chaos.
Lorenzo lunged forward with terrifying speed. Before the scarred man could pull his trigger, Lorenzo grabbed the man's wrist, twisting it violently upward. A gunshot shattered the air, the bullet tearing into the high ceiling and scattering plaster over the velvet sofa. Lorenzo drove his elbow directly into the man’s throat, followed by a knee to his sternum.
The second gunman fired. The heavy bullet tore through a rack of silk jackets behind Meline, sending feathers and fabric flying.
Lorenzo grabbed Meline by the waist with one arm, his strength staggering, and threw her down behind the heavy oak cutting table. "Stay down!" he roared.
A heavy body slammed against the other side of the oak table. Meline scrambled backward on her knees, pressing her back against the drawers. Suddenly, a large, calloused hand reached around the side of the table and grabbed her ankle, dragging her toward the aisle.
Meline screamed, kicking violently with her heavy boot. Her heel struck the attacker’s shoulder, but his grip remained like iron. He leaned around the table—a muscular man with blood running from his nose—and reached for her neck.
Meline didn't hesitate. She brought the closed steel dressmaker’s shears down with all her weight directly across the bridge of his nose.
Bone cracked. The man let out a agonizing scream, releasing her ankle as he clutched his smashed face with both hands.
Above her, two more gunshots rang out in rapid succession, followed by the heavy, dull thud of bodies hitting the floor. Then, silence descended.
Meline crouched beneath the table, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, her hands shaking violently as she held the bloody shears in front of her chest.
Footsteps approached slowly. A dark shadow fell across the floor.
Lorenzo knelt down in front of her. His grey vest was torn at the shoulder, and a smear of dark blood wiped across his cheekbone, but his eyes were completely clear, dark, and focused entirely on her.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice raw.
"No," Meline gasped, her eyes wide as she looked past him at the three men lying motionless on her shop floor. "I... I smashed his nose."
Lorenzo looked down at the bloodied shears in her hands, then back at her face. A slow, fierce warmth flared in his eyes. "You did well, cara."
He reached out, his long fingers gently wrapping around her wrist to guide the shears down. He pulled her up from the floor as if she weighed nothing.
"What is happening?" Meline stammered, looking around at her ruined shop. Glass was everywhere, her precious fabrics were ruined, and three syndicate enforcers were bleeding out on her carpet. "Who were they?"
"Lombardi’s men," Lorenzo said coldly. He pulled a silver phone from his pocket, tapped a single button, and brought it to his ear. "Clear the shop. Bring two armored SUVs to the rear alley. Now."
He lowered the phone and turned to Meline. "Isabella’s father is trying to force a war to take over Boston's docks. He used these men to send a message. But he made a fatal calculation."
Lorenzo stepped closer, taking Meline’s shaking hands into his own warm, solid grip.
"What calculation?" she asked, her voice trembling.
Lorenzo looked into her eyes with a terrifying intensity. "He assumed you were just my seamstress. He didn't realize you are my fiancée."
May you like
Meline stared at him in utter shock. "Your what?"
"If they think you are an ordinary civilian, they will hunt you down to use you against me," Lorenzo said firmly, dragging her toward the back door of the shop as heavy footfalls echoed in the alley outside. "Starting today, the entire criminal underworld needs to know that touching you means war with the Moretti family. You are coming with me, Meline. And you are playing the part."
