Chapter 6 - The Diamond Shroud
The engagement was announced to the Chicago underworld with the subtlety of a falling bomb.
Within forty-eight hours, the city's gossip columns, police blotters, and syndicate wires were buzzing with disbelief. Victor Romano, the widowed king of the Northern Syndicate, was marrying his former maid. To the old-school mob bosses, it was a scandalous insult; to the younger turks, it was a sign of madness.
But Victor didn't care about their whispers. He weaponized them.
On a rainy Tuesday afternoon, a team of high-end designers from Milan arrived at the estate with racks of silk, lace, and tulle. They buzzed around me like nervous bees, measuring my shoulders, fitting corsets, and whispering in Italian.
I stood on a raised podium in the center of the grand parlor, feeling like a doll being dressed for a sacrificial ritual.
"Perfection," the lead designer, a flamboyant man named Signor Rossi, clapped his hands together. "The contrast between her pale skin and the dark silk is tragic and magnificent!"
The dress was a masterpiece—a high-necked Victorian-style gown made of cascading ivory silk, embroidered with silver thread that caught the light like spiderwebs. It was stunning, elegant, and entirely suffocating.
As Rossi stepped back to admire his work, the heavy double doors of the parlor swung open.
Victor walked in. He had just returned from a meeting with the city’s district attorney—a man he owned lock, stock, and barrel. He stopped dead in his tracks.
The designers immediately bowed their heads and scurried backward, clearing the room in seconds.
Victor walked slowly toward the podium. His pale eyes scanned the gown, traveling up the silk line of the bodice, over the delicate lace collar, and finally locking onto my face. For a second, the harsh lines of his face softened into something almost reverent.
"Well?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "Does it meet syndicate standards?"
Victor stepped up onto the podium. He reached out, his warm fingertips gently brushing against my cheek, tracing the line of my jawline.
"It’s not enough," he murmured, his gaze heavy and intense.
"Not enough? It costs more than my family made in five years."
"Money is paper, Clara," Victor said quietly. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small black velvet jeweler's case. He flipped it open.
Inside sat an engagement ring that took my breath away: a massive, flawless emerald-cut diamond flanked by two deep blue sapphires—the colors of the Romano crest.
"This belonged to my grandmother," Victor said, lifting the ring from its velvet bed. "When my father gave it to her, he told her that the Romano men only love once, and when they do, they chain their hearts to stone so they can never be stolen back."
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He took my left hand, his fingers steady and warm, and slid the heavy heirloom onto my ring finger. It fit as if it had been custom-made for my skin.
"You look like a queen, Clara," Victor whispered, his lips brushing my knuckles. "And starting tonight, woe to anyone who forgets it."
