Elena rejected them all.
She walked past the racks of polite society gowns, her fingers trailing over the fabrics until she stopped at a mannequin in the corner.
It was a column of midnight purple velvet, so dark it was almost black, with a neckline that was architectural and sharp.
It had a daring low back that would reveal every inch of her spine and a slit that promised movement and defiance.
“This one,” Elena said, her voice had lost its maid’s lilt.
It was now the cool, detached tone of a woman who was used to being obeyed.
When she emerged from the dressing room an hour later, the air in the Italier seemed to thin.
The uniform was gone.
In its place was a vision of untouchable elegance.
Her hair was pulled back into a sleek short black bob that emphasized the regal curve of her neck.
She wore no diamonds, only the single perfect shining necklace Dehyan had gifted her, a symbol of her maritime heritage.
Dehyan stood up slowly.
For the first time, the mafia boss felt his pulse quicken for a reason that had nothing to do with violence.
She didn’t look like a maid playing a part.
She looked like the rightful owner of the room.
“You look,” he started, the words catching in his throat.
“I look like the truth, sir,” Elena interrupted, meeting his gaze in the mirror.
And the truth is the one thing your ex- fiance isn’t prepared to face tonight.
The black sedan pulled up to the Shilla Hotel like a predator entering a fold of sheep.
Outside the flashbulbs of the paparazzi were a constant rhythmic lightning.
This was the wedding of the year and the media was hungry for the sight of the jilted mafia boss arriving in defeat.
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