Chapter 4 - The Preparation
The next two weeks passed in a bizarre, disciplined routine that felt more like military training than preparing for an engagement.
Every morning at six, I was woken by Elena, who oversaw a team of private tutors, stylists, and etiquette coaches hired by Ricardo. I was taught how to walk in four-inch Christian Louboutin heels without making a sound on marble floors. I was taught how to hold a crystal wine glass by the stem, how to address European diplomats and syndicate bosses, and how to spot a concealed firearm under a man’s suit jacket.
"In Don Ricardo’s world, posture is armor," my etiquette instructor, a stern Frenchwoman named Madame Laurent, insisted as I walked across the grand parlor with a heavy leather book balanced on my head. "If you slouch, if you hesitate, if you show fear in your eyes, his associates will devour you alive."
While my mornings were filled with rigorous training, my evenings belonged entirely to Matteo.
The little boy attached himself to me like a shadow. He followed me from room to room, holding onto the hem of my dress or sitting quietly beside me while I read medical textbooks in the library. He still refused to speak, but the violent, breathless panic attacks that had tormented him since his mother’s death completely ceased. He ate his meals, he slept six hours a night, and for the first time in months, he smiled when I built tall wooden towers for him to knock over.
Ricardo was rarely home during the day. He left before dawn in his convoy of black SUVs and returned long after the sun had set. But every night, around eleven o'clock, I would hear his heavy, measured footsteps echoing down the hallway outside my room.
On the fourteenth night, as I was sitting by the fireplace in my suite reading a textbook on pediatric trauma, a soft knock sounded at the door connecting my room to the hallway.
"Come in," I said, setting my book down.
The door opened, and Ricardo stepped inside. He had removed his tie, his black shirt unbuttoned at the throat, revealing the tanned skin of his neck and the top of a dark tattoo. He looked exhausted, the sharp lines of his face carved deeper by stress and dark circles under his eyes.
He walked over to the fireplace, leaning his elbow against the marble mantlepiece, staring into the flickering flames.
"Matteo is sleeping?" he asked, his voice low and weary.
"He's been asleep since eight," I replied softly, watching him from my chair. "He had a good day. He ate all his dinner and drew a picture of a red train."
A faint, barely perceptible softness touched Ricardo’s eyes before vanishing back into his stern mask. "Good. That is... good."
"You look like you haven't slept in three days, Ricardo," I said, unable to stop the professional nursing instinct from slipping into my voice.
He let out a short, humorless breath that was almost a laugh. "Sleep is a luxury reserved for men who don't have twelve captains vying for their territory, Maya. The Brooklyn syndicate hit one of my shipping warehouses at the docks last night. We lost three men."
I flinched slightly at the casual way he spoken of death, but I kept my voice steady. "Is that why there are twice as many guards outside the gates today?"
"Yes," he said, turning his amber eyes to look directly at me. "Which brings me to why I am here tonight. Tomorrow evening is the annual winter gala hosted by the Moretti Syndicate at the Plaza Hotel. Every major family in the triad states will be there. The Russians, the Irish, and my own capos."
My pulse quickened. "The gala."
"Tomorrow night, you step onto the stage," Ricardo said, taking two slow steps toward my chair, stopping just inches away. His presence was warm, overwhelming, filling the space between us. "Tomorrow, you are no longer a secret living in my east wing. You are Maya Lin, the future bride of Ricardo Moretti. Six hundred men who would like nothing more than to see me bleed will be watching your every move."
I stood up from my chair, lifting my chin to look him straight in his dark eyes. I was wearing a simple silk robe, but I held myself with the rigid grace Madame Laurent had drilled into me for two weeks.
"I won't fail you, Ricardo," I said firmly. "I know my role."
Ricardo looked down at me, his eyes searching my face with a dark, intense curiosity that sent a sudden, electric shiver straight down my spine. He reached out, his long, calloused fingers gently cupping the side of my jaw. His touch was surprisingly light, his thumb brushing softly over my cheekbone.
"You are surprisingly brave, Maya Lin," he murmured, his thumb lingering against my skin, sending a wave of heat straight to my core. "Or surprisingly foolish."
"Maybe both," I whispered, repeating the words I had thought the night I knelt before his son in the restaurant.
His gaze dropped to my lips for a heavy, breathless second, his thumb tracing the outline of my mouth. For a wild, terrifying moment, I thought he was going to lean down and kiss me. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird, my breath catching in my throat.
Then, as quickly as it had come, the moment shattered.
Ricardo snapped his hand back, stepping away from me as if he had been burned. The cold, unyielding wall instantly slammed back down over his features.
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"Wear the emerald dress in your closet tomorrow," he commanded coldly, his voice clipping the air. "The car leaves at seven sharp. Don't be late."
He turned on his heel and strode out of my room, slamming the heavy oak door behind him, leaving me standing alone by the fire, my heart wildly out of rhythm and my lips still tingling from his touch.
