Chapter 6 - The Lion’s Den
By four o'clock that afternoon, the lie had been broadcast through every whisper-network and shadow channel in New York’s criminal underworld.
I stood before a full-length mirror in the suite, dressed in an elegant dark green wool dress provided by Dante’s staff. A heavy, antique gold ring set with a clear sapphire sat on the ring finger of my left hand—the mark of the Castellano family.
Dante stepped into the room, wearing an Italian tuxedo that made him look like a dark prince from another century. He looked at me, his gaze lingering on the ring on my hand.
“Tonight, we attend a gala at the Metropolitan Opera House,” Dante said smoothly, offering me his arm. “Every major family in the city will be present, including Viktor Moretti. We must play our roles flawlessly.”
“I am an accountant, Dante,” I whispered, my heart hammering in my ears. “I don't know how to play the role of a mafia boss’s fiancé.”
“You don't need to play a role, Eliza,” Dante said, reaching out to gently tuck a strand of dark hair behind my ear. His fingers were surprisingly warm against my cold skin. “Just stand beside me, hold your head high, and let them see that you are untouchable.”
Twenty minutes later, a fleet of three black armored limousines pulled up to the glittering entrance of Lincoln Center.
Photographers' flashes exploded like fireworks as Dante stepped out of the vehicle and turned to offer his hand to me. I took it, stepping onto the red carpet in my heels, my head held high despite the dizzying storm of lights and voices.
As we walked through the grand glass doors into the velvet-lined lobby, the surrounding chatter of high-society guests and shadowy businessmen instantly died down to a sharp, murmuring hush.
Standing near the grand staircase was a heavy-set man in his fifties with a thick gray mustache and cold, watery eyes. Viktor Moretti.
May you like
Beside him, standing half-hidden behind two large bodyguards, was a man wearing a waiter’s uniform, his hands trembling as he carried a tray of champagne flutes.
My breath caught. It was Mark.
