Chapter 7 - The Sovereign’s Shield
“Pierre,” Dante said without looking back.
“Y-yes, Mr. Serrano?” the director squeaked, wiping sweat from his forehead.
“This salon never opened today. You never saw this woman. If a single word about a birthmark, a butterfly, or Aurora Vane leaves this room, I will personally ensure that every person in this building vanishes from New York before sunrise. Am I clear?”
Pierre and his staff nodded frantically, their faces pale with absolute terror. They knew Dante Serrano did not make empty threats.
“Get her the finest clothes you have,” Dante ordered, rising smoothly to his feet. “Clean, warm, understated. We are leaving in ten minutes.”
Mia quickly moved into the salon’s private boutique section, returning with a cashmere turtleneck sweater, tailored black wool trousers, and a heavy, lined coat. As Aurora washed her face and stepped behind a silk screen to change, Dante walked to the corner of the room and pulled out his encrypted phone.
He dialed a single number.
“Marcus,” Dante said when the call connected. “Gather the full vanguard. I want twenty of our best men at the penthouse within the hour. Secure all perimeters. And fetch Dr. Evans—quietly.”
“Boss?” Marcus’s deep voice crackled over the secure line, filled with disbelief. “Where have you been? We heard about Pier 42. The Syndicate is claiming you’re dead! Richard Vane just called an emergency meeting with the board for tomorrow morning to finalize the port takeover!”
“Let them think I’m dead for another twelve hours,” Dante said, his voice cold and sharp as a razor. “The game has changed. I am coming back with the rightful owner of Manhattan.”
He hung up the phone just as Aurora stepped out from behind the screen.
The transformation was astounding. Without the dark crust of filth and the crushing weight of the matted hair, she was ethereal. The soft black turtleneck highlighted her delicate jawline, and her short, freshly styled hair framed a face of intense, aristocratic grace. But it was her eyes—wide, intelligent, and fierce despite her fragility—that commanded the room.
She was no longer the street vagrant of Pier 42. She was an heiress returned from the grave.
May you like
Dante extended his arm to her. “Shall we, Miss Vane?”
Aurora looked at his offered arm, hesitated for a second, and then placed her small, pale hand firmly on his sleeve. “Let’s go, Mr. Serrano.”
