THE HYPOCRISY OF THE MAFIA
The suite’s mirror did not lie; the woman reflecting back was a stranger. My eyes no longer held the light of innocence, nor the warmth of love.
The dress Aaron had chosen for me was not an outfit for mourning; it was a declaration of war woven in French lace and black satin. It clung to my body like a second skin, with a neckline that pushed the boundaries of decency and a skirt that fell in a heavy, elegant, and regal sweep.
But the true protagonist of my attire was the black diamond. It hung from my neck, cold and dense, absorbing the room's light without offering a single reflection in return. It was like a demon’s eye monitoring my pulse.
Aaron appeared behind me. He was already prepared, dressed in a custom three-piece suit so black it seemed like a
