Chapter 4 - The Lamb among Wolves
The formal announcement dinner was held three days later at the Drake Hotel’s Grand Ballroom.
Harper stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror in her suite, barely recognizing the woman looking back at her. The dress was a masterpiece of midnight-blue velvet, designed specifically for her by a tailor Dominic had flown in from Milan. It hugged her waist, supported her full bust with structured boning, and flowed down into a dramatic train that swept the floor. Her dark hair fell in soft, heavy waves over her shoulders, and her skin glowed under the warm lights.
"Stunning," Mrs. Gable breathed from the doorway. "Simply magnificent, Mrs. Moretti."
Harper took a deep breath, trying to calm the nauseating flutter in her stomach. She wasn't Harper the server tonight. She was the fiancee of the most dangerous man in Illinois.
When she walked down the grand stairs, Dominic was waiting at the bottom. He wore a crisp black tuxedo with a satin bow tie. When he looked up and saw her, he froze. For three long seconds, the terrifying, unreadable boss of the Chicago underworld simply stared at her, his lips parted slightly, his steel-grey eyes burning with an intense, raw heat that made Harper’s cheeks flush darker than any blush could manage.
He offered his arm. "You look... breathtaking, Harper."
"I feel like an imposter," she whispered as they walked out to the waiting limousine.
"An imposter stays quiet," Dominic murmured, opening the car door for her himself. "Tonight, you hold your chin up. When Frankie DeLuca looks at you, you look right back into his eyes. Let him see that you aren't afraid."
The Drake Ballroom was a sea of black ties, diamond necklaces, and security guards with heavy coat jackets standing near every exit. The chatter in the room died down significantly the moment Dominic Moretti walked through the double doors with Harper on his arm.
Whispers erupted like wildfire.
"Who is she?"
"Is that a DeLuca girl?"
"No, look at her... she’s not from the families."
Dominic led her straight toward the central table where an older man with silver hair, a thick neck, and a cruel, pockmarked face sat surrounded by three younger enforcers. Sitting beside him was a stunning, thin blonde woman in a skintight red silk dress—Gina DeLuca—and next to her, looking pale and nervous with a dark bruise still visible on his neck, was Paul DeLuca.
"Frankie," Dominic said smoothly, stopping before the table. "I believe you know my fiancee, Harper Henkins."
Frankie DeLuca slowly stood up. His eyes dragged over Harper with cold, calculating disgust, pausing on her wide hips, her full curves, and the massive canary diamond sparkling on her left hand.
"Harper Henkins," Frankie grunted, his voice sounding like gravel being crushed under a tire. "The waitress from the Lexington. My nephew told me about her."
Gina DeLuca let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "A server, Dominic? Really? You passed on my father’s alliance for a girl who carries dinner plates for a living?"
Harper felt the insult sting, a familiar heat rising in her throat. She felt Dominic’s arm tense beneath her hand, ready to strike, but before he could speak, Harper stepped forward half an inch.
"I carried plates to pay my way through life, Miss DeLuca," Harper said, her voice clear, rich, and steady, echoing over the quieted table. "It taught me how to spot trash before it gets dumped on the table. Like your nephew, for instance."
Paul DeLuca flinched hard, turning red.
Frankie DeLuca’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. The surrounding mob lieutenants went deadly silent.
May you like
Dominic let out a low, dark chuckle that sent chills straight down Harper’s spine. He placed his hand over hers on his arm, pressing it affectionately against his ribs.
"As you can see, Frankie," Dominic said, his eyes turning to stone as he stared down the older mob boss, "my future wife has an exceptional eye for quality. We expect your union rep to clear the harbor shipments by noon tomorrow. Unless, of course, you want Mrs. Moretti to review your books next."
