Chapter 9 - The Don's Declaration
By the following week, the DeAgostino estate had undergone a seismic transformation.
The staff had received strict, unmistakable instructions: Charlotte Higgins was no longer an employee. Her maid’s uniform had been burned. Her belongings had been moved from the drafty attic into the master wing.
Dressmakers from Manhattan’s most exclusive Fifth Avenue boutiques were summoned directly to the estate. They brought rolls of emerald silk, midnight-blue velvet, and soft cashmere, taking Charlotte’s measurements with hushed deference. For the first time in her life, no one sneered at her proportions; the Don sat in the corner of the dressing room, watching with hooded, possessive eyes, approving only the finest fabrics that accentuated her soft curves.
Yet, despite the luxury, Charlotte’s heart remained uneasy.
She stood on the grand marble terrace overlooking the Long Island Sound, the crisp autumn wind tugging at the skirt of her dark green wool dress. Her left arm was still bound in the fiberglass cast, resting in a tailored black silk sling.
Footsteps echoed behind her. She didn't need to turn to know it was Vincent.
He came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, resting his chin lightly on her shoulder. His warmth chased away the ocean chill.
“You are quiet today, little bird,” Vincent murmured, kissing the curve of her neck.
Charlotte leaned back against his solid chest, staring out at the gray waves crashing against the seawall. “The other capos... they are talking, Vincent. Rosa told me. They think you lost your mind. They think killing ten men over a broken arm makes you look reckless.”
Vincent gave a low, dismissive chuckle that vibrated through her back. “Let them talk. Marco, Luca, and the rest know better than to question my judgment. But if any of them think I am weak, they are welcome to challenge me. They know where Sullivan’s crew ended up.”
“It’s not just that,” Charlotte whispered, turning slightly in his embrace to look into his slate-gray eyes. “They look at me and they see a fat kitchen girl who got lucky. They don't understand why a man like you—a man who could have supermodels, heiresses, daughters of senators—would want *me*.”
Vincent’s amusement vanished instantly. His grip on her waist tightened, pulling her firmly against his hips.
“Look at me,” Vincent commanded, his voice dark and resolute.
Charlotte looked up into his face.
“Those supermodels and heiresses are plastic ghosts, Charlotte,” Vincent said, his fingers gently tracing the soft line of her jaw. “They want my name. They want my money. They want the power that comes with wearing a DeAgostino ring. None of them would have looked at me twice if I were a ditch digger.”
He pressed his forehead against hers.
“You served me when you had nothing,” he whispered. “You endured agony to protect your pride. You are soft where the rest of this world is cruel, and you are stronger than any soldier I command. I do not want an ornament on my arm, Charlotte. I want *you*. Every curve, every inch, every breath.”
Tears welled in Charlotte’s eyes, but this time they were tears of pure, unadulterated joy.
Vincent reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small, black velvet box.
With steady fingers, he snapped it open.
Inside rested a ring that made Charlotte gasp. It was not a delicate, fragile diamond. It was an enormous, cushion-cut emerald, deep and fiery green, flanked by two flawless trapezoid diamonds set in platinum.
“Vincent...” she gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
“Tonight, the heads of the Five Families are coming to this house for dinner,” Vincent said, taking her right hand. “They think they are coming to discuss port territory. But before a single word of business is spoken, they will bend the knee to the future mistress of this family.”
He slid the heavy emerald ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly.
“Will you stand beside me, Charlotte?” Vincent asked, his slate eyes burning with a vulnerability he showed to no other soul on earth. “Not in the shadows. Not behind the pantry door. But at the head of the table, by my side?”
Charlotte looked down at the brilliant emerald shining against her skin, then looked up at the man who had torn down an entire syndicate just to heal her broken wings.
May you like
“Yes,” she whispered, throwing her arms around his neck. “Yes, Vincent. Always.”
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