Chapter 12 - Blood and Silk
The threat beyond the north fence didn't stall the grand machine of Damian Vance’s life; if anything, it accelerated the wedding preparations. In Damian’s world, retreating behind closed doors was an admission of weakness that sharks could smell a mile away.
Instead, he insisted on hosting an exclusive engagement dinner in the ballroom of the estate, inviting the highest echelon of Chicago’s aristocracy—mayors, judges, corporate titans, and the silent, ruthless syndicates who operated in the dark spaces between the laws.
"You look breathtaking, Miss Emma," Viktor said as he escorted me down the curved grand staircase toward the ballroom.
I wore an off-the-shoulder gown of emerald silk that matched the ring on my finger, the fabric draped strategically to showcase the pale, silvered lines across my shoulder and collarbone. I had stopped trying to hide my scars. Damian had told me they were medals of honor—proof that I had stood between his bloodline and death—and tonight, I wore them like armor.
The ballroom was a kaleidoscope of diamonds, crystal chandeliers, and low, calculating murmurs. When Damian saw me enter, he cut off a conversation with a sitting federal judge without a word of apology, crossing the marble floor with predatory grace to reach my side.
"You're defying every rule of my sanity tonight," he murmured, his voice dropping into that dark, velvety register reserved solely for my ears. He took my hand and brought it to his lips, kissing the scar on my knuckles before pressing his mouth against my wrist, right where my pulse hammered.
"I learned from the best," I replied, holding his gaze.
Before Damian could pull me onto the dance floor, a ripple of quiet tension rippled through the grand doors.
A tall, silver-haired man walked in, flanked by two bodyguards whose posture was far too rigid for ordinary socialites. He had sharp, aquiline features and eyes the color of stagnant river water. In his hands, he carried a long, polished lacquer box tied with crimson ribbon.
The warmth drained out of Damian’s stance. The hand resting against my lower back went completely rigid, the muscles of his jaw clamping shut like a steel vise.
"Don Stefano Rossi," Damian said, his voice flat and lethal enough to silence the surrounding chatter. "I don't recall sending an invitation to New York."
The older man smiled, though his pale eyes remained entirely dead. He stopped three paces away, bowing his head slightly toward me. "An oversight, surely, Vance. A king does not take a queen without his neighbors offering their respects. Especially when the queen is the brave little songbird who saved the Vance heir."
Stefano extended the lacquer box. "A wedding gift. To honor the new alliance. And to remind you that even the tallest walls cannot stop the wind."
Viktor stepped forward, intercepting the box and scanning it with a handheld device before Damian gave a curt nod to open it.
Inside lay an antique ceremonial dagger, its ivory hilt carved into the shape of a weeping woman. The steel blade was etched with an inscription in archaic Italian, gleaming under the chandelier light.
"May your home be blessed with enduring silence," Stefano Rossi whispered, his eyes locking onto mine with an unblinking, invasive scrutiny.
Damian didn't reach for the blade. Instead, he stepped half an inch forward, shielding me entirely behind the breadth of his shoulder. "Your gift is noted, Stefano. Now take your men and leave my house before I decide to test the sharpness of this blade against your throat."
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Stefano’s smile never reached his eyes. He gave a mocking salute with two fingers, turned on his heel, and strode out of the ballroom.
Beneath the music that resumed playing, I felt Damian’s hand tighten against mine, trembling with a restrained, volcanic fury.
