Claimed by the Silent Don

The Diamond in the Rough

Chapter 4:

The garment bag Dante threw onto my bed was heavy, smelling of ozone and expensive boutiques. I didn't touch it for an hour. I sat by the window, watching the waves crash against the cliffs, wondering if I was dressing for a party or my own execution.

Finally, I unzipped it.

The silk was the color of a bruised plum, dark, regal, and dangerous. It was a floor-length gown with a slit that climbed dangerously high up my thigh and a back that dipped to the base of my spine. Beside it sat a velvet box. Inside was a diamond choker, the stones so clear they looked like droplets of frozen starlight.

As I put it on, the cold metal felt like a collar. A Moretti collar.

I spent an hour on my hair and makeup, masking the exhaustion and the fear behind a veneer of Ricci elegance. When I stepped out of the room, Dante was waiting in the hallway.

He was dressed in a black-on-black tuxedo that made him look like a shadow given form. He was leaning against the wall, checking his watch, but the moment I stepped out, he froze. His flinty eyes tracked from the top of my head down to my heels, lingering on the exposed skin of my shoulder.

He didn't say I looked beautiful. He didn't have to. The way his jaw tightened and his pupils blown wide told me everything.

"The diamonds suit you," he rasped, his voice sounding deeper than usual. He stepped toward me, his thumb grazing the edge of the choker. "But remember, Elena, they are a warning. You belong to the Moretti house tonight. Act like it."

"I know how to play a part, Dante," I said, tilting my chin up. "I've been a Ricci my whole life. We invented this game."

The Gala was held at the Grand Excelsior, a palace of gold leaf and crystal. As we entered, the roar of conversation died down to a dull hum. Every eye in the room, the sharks, the politicians, the killers in silk ties, landed on us. Or rather, they landed on the "Sold Girl" walking on the arm of the Silent Don.

"Stay close," Dante whispered, his hand sliding to the small of my back. The heat of his palm through the thin silk of my dress was a jolt to my system.

We hadn't been in the room for five minutes before the vultures circled.

"Dante, darling! I heard you’d picked up a new... pet."

A woman in a blood-red gown sauntered over. Bianca Vitale. The daughter of the man who ran the docks and the woman everyone assumed Dante would eventually marry to consolidate power. She looked at me with a smirk that didn't reach her cold, calculating eyes.

"So this is the little Ricci girl," Bianca sneered, loud enough for the nearby socialites to hear. "I must say, Dante, she looks much better in silk than she did in the police reports after her father lost the estate. Tell me, Elena, is it true your father cried when he signed you over? Or was he too busy counting the chips Dante gave him?"

A few women behind her giggled. I felt the blood rush to my face, my fingernails digging into my palms. I wanted to scream, to tear that smirk off her face.

But Dante’s grip on my waist tightened. He stepped forward, pulling me flush against his side in a move that was purely possessive. The air around him seemed to drop twenty degrees.

"Bianca," Dante said, his voice carrying with a lethal, quiet authority that silenced the entire corner of the room. "You seem confused."

Bianca’s smirk flickered. "Confused? I’m just stating the facts—"

"The fact," Dante interrupted, "is that Elena Ricci is not a pet. She is my fiancée."

A collective gasp rippled through the circle. My heart hammered against my ribs. Fiancée? We hadn't discussed this.

Dante leaned down, his lips brushing my temple in a public display of affection that felt like a claim. Then he looked back at Bianca, his eyes turning to twin pits of ice.

"And since she is to be a Moretti, I suggest you watch your tongue. If I hear you speak her name with anything less than the respect her title deserves, I won’t go to your father to complain. I’ll simply remove the docks from your family’s hands. And perhaps your father’s tongue along with them."

Bianca turned a ghostly shade of white. Her glass trembled in her hand. "I... I didn't mean—"

"Apologize," Dante commanded. It wasn't a request. It was an ultimatum.

"I'm sorry," Bianca whispered, her eyes darting to the floor. She turned and fled into the crowd, her entourage following like scolded dogs.

I looked up at Dante, breathless. He was still looking at the spot where Bianca had stood, his expression murderous. Then, he looked down at me. For a second, the mask slipped. The "Silent Don" disappeared, and I saw a man who was protecting a "Key."

"Don't look at me like that," he whispered, his hand sliding up to cup the back of my neck. "It’s just a role, Elena."

"Is it?" I asked, my voice barely audible over the music.

Before he could answer, the crowd parted. A man with hair as white as bone and a cane topped with a silver skull walked toward us. The Shadow Don.

He stopped in front of us, his gaze landing on the diamond choker around my neck. He smiled, a slow, yellowed grin that made my skin crawl.

"Beautiful," the old man wheezed. "She looks just like her mother, doesn't she, Dante? I trust you’re keeping her safe. It would be such a shame if history... repeated itself."

Dante’s hand moved to the small of my back, his fingers brushing the hilt of the knife hidden beneath his tuxedo jacket.

"History won't repeat itself," Dante said, his voice a low, terrifying growl. "Because this time, I’m the one holding the blade."