Chapter 7
GIULIANA
Maria arrives at my room at exactly noon with three other women I’ve never seen before—a makeup artist with a rolling case so full of products it would make a teenage girl squeal, a hair stylist carrying what looks like a professional salon’s worth of equipment, and a woman who introduces herself as Sophia from some boutique whose name I don’t catch but that apparently caters exclusively to “discerning clients.”
“Mr. Marchetti has selected your ensemble for this evening,” Sophia says, laying garment bags across my bed with the reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts. “We’ll begin with hair and makeup, then dress you closer to departure time.”
I want to say something—protest, resist, remind them I’m capable of dressing myself—but again, what’s the point?
Everything about tonight is Luca’s choice, from my clothing to my jewelry to the words I’ll be allowed to speak.
The makeup artist studies my face, her fingers tilting my chin to examine my cheekbone where the last traces of Dimitri’s violence have finally faded to nothing.
“Good bone structure,” she murmurs, like I’m a canvas rather than a person.
“We’ll play up the eyes, keep the lips soft.
Mr. Marchetti specified ‘elegant but approachable.’”
Of course he did. Even my face is subject to his specifications.
Fuck him.
They work on me for hours.
The hair stylist creates elaborate waves that cascade down my back, pinning sections with what feel like a thousand bobby pins.
The makeup artist applies layers of foundation and contour and highlight, transforming my face into something that looks like me but perfected, polished, and utterly artificial.
When Sophia finally unzips the garment bag, I understand why they saved the dress for last.
Everyone gasps as she removes it.
It’s a masterpiece.
Emerald silk shimmers like water in moonlight, with a neckline that’s low enough to be interesting without being scandalous, and a skirt that flows like liquid when Sophia holds it up to the light.
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and I hate it with every fiber of my being.
“Arms up,” Sophia instructs, and I obey like the obedient doll I’ve become. It fits perfectly.
The jewelry comes next.
A diamond necklace that probably costs more than my veterinary school loans.
Matching earrings that catch the light and throw rainbows across the ceiling.
A bracelet that circles my wrist like the most expensive handcuff imaginable.
When they’re finally done and I’m standing in front of the full-length mirror, I barely recognize myself.
The woman staring back at me is sophisticated and elegant.
Exactly the kind of trophy wife a man like Luca Marchetti would choose.
She’s beautiful and poised and completely fake.
“Perfect,” Maria says with satisfaction. “Mr. Marchetti will be pleased.”
The words make my stomach turn.
I don’t want to please Luca Marchetti.
I don’t want to be his perfect accessory, his political prop, his tool for impressing dangerous men and sealing territorial alliances.
But none of what I want matters anymore.
The ballroom of the Palmer House Hilton glitters. Crystal chandeliers and gold leaf and mirrors multiply the crowd into infinity.
I stand near the entrance in a designer gown, watching Chicago’s elite circle each other like sharks in expensive clothing, and try to remember how to breathe.
Nine days.
I’ve been Luca’s prisoner for nine days, and tonight is my debut as his fiancée.
My first appearance in public since he destroyed my life and locked me in that opulent hell he pretends is home.
Now, standing in this ballroom surrounded by Chicago’s most powerful and dangerous people, I understand the full scope of what Luca has planned for me.
This isn’t just about attending a charity gala.
This is about being displayed.
It’s proof that Luca Marchetti has evolved beyond simple criminal enterprise into something more sophisticated, more legitimate, more untouchable.
Luca stands beside me in a tuxedo that makes him look more handsome than he already is, his hand resting possessively at the small of my back.
To anyone watching, we look like the perfect couple—handsome crime lord and his beautiful fiancée, madly in love and embarking on a life together.
The reality is his fingers press just slightly too hard against my spine, a constant reminder that I’m here because he allows it, that I exist entirely at his discretion.
“Smile, cara,” he murmurs against my ear, his breath warm against my neck.
The intimacy of it makes my skin crawl, even as some traitorous part of my body registers the warmth, the masculine woodsy scent of his cologne.
I hate that I notice.
I hate that any part of me responds to the man who’s destroyed my life, who’s holding me captive, who plans to use me then hide me away until he’s ready to trot me out again.
I hate him.
“Viktor Torrino is watching,” he continues, his voice low and intimate enough that anyone observing would think he’s whispering sweet nothings. “And you’re supposed to be madly in love with me.”
I paste on a smile that feels like it might crack my face in half.
Across the room, I can see an older man studying us with sharp blue eyes—Viktor Torrino, I assume.
The man whose territorial alliance requires my captivity, whose business arrangements necessitate this elaborate stupid fucking charade.
“He looks pleased,” Luca continues, his voice pleased.
God, I wish I could do anything other than please him.
“You’re playing your role beautifully.”
Playing. That’s exactly what this is.
It’s a performance where I have no choice but to deliver the lines Luca has written for me.
The ballroom is packed with Chicago’s elite, and I recognize faces from news reports and whispered stories.
Politicians whose campaigns probably run on mob money.
Business leaders who’ve built empires through connections to organized crime.
Society women dripping in jewelry that could feed entire neighborhoods, blissfully ignorant—or willfully blind—to where their husbands’ money comes from.
The charity we’re supposedly here to support is something about children’s hospitals, but the irony isn’t lost on me.
These people wouldn’t know actual charity if it bit them in the ass.
This is a networking event disguised as philanthropy, a place where deals are made and alliances are forged while everyone pretends to care about sick children.
“Mr. Marchetti!” a voice cuts through my harsh thoughts, and I turn to see a man approaching.
He has silver hair, an expensive suit, and the kind of smile that looks practiced. “What a pleasure to finally meet the woman who captured your heart.”
Luca’s hand tightens imperceptibly against my back. “Giuliana, this is Mayor Castellano. Mayor, my fiancée, Dr. Giuliana Conti.”
Doctor. He actually used my title, probably because it makes me sound more impressive and more worthy of a man in his position.
“Charmed.” The mayor takes my hand and presses a kiss to my knuckles, making my skin crawl. “I must say, Luca, you’ve been keeping this lovely lady quite hidden. The entire city has been absolutely buzzing with curiosity about your sudden engagement.”
“Some things are worth keeping private,” Luca responds smoothly, pulling me closer against his side.
The movement presses me against the hard muscle of his torso, and I’m acutely aware of his body heat seeping through the thin silk of my gown, the solid strength of him that could crush me without effort.
My body registers his proximity with a traitorous flutter of awareness that makes me want to scrub my skin raw.
This is the man who had me beaten and destroyed my life. Any physical response to him is a betrayal of everything I should feel.
“Until the time is right to share them with the world,” Luca finishes.
The mayor’s eyes flick between us, shrewd and sharp despite his friendly demeanor. “Indeed. Well, congratulations to you both. I look forward to the wedding. I assume I’ll be receiving an invitation?”
A question and a threat all in one.
Luca is unfazed. “Of course. We wouldn’t dream of celebrating without the city’s leadership present.”
They continue talking, discussing things I don’t understand—and don’t care to understand.
Territorial boundaries disguised as zoning regulations, profit sharing masked as economic development initiatives.
I stand there like an ornament, smiling when appropriate, nodding at the right moments, playing the role of the devoted fiancée who’s too enamored with her handsome husband-to-be to pay attention to his business dealings.
Inside, I’m screaming.
I hate them. I hate them all.
We move through the crowd, and it’s the same everywhere—powerful men deferring to Luca’s judgment.
Women study me with expressions ranging from curiosity to envy.
I watch how people part for him like he’s royalty and how conversations pause when he approaches.
How even the most influential people in this room carefully weigh their words before speaking to him.
They’re terrified of him. Every single one of them.
And I’m trapped on his arm, his prisoner disguised as his prize.
“Luca Marchetti.”
I turn to see the man who was studying me earlier approach with a young woman at his side.
Viktor Torrino, I assume.
He’s tall and distinguished, probably in his late fifties or early sixties, with silver hair and the kind of presence that commands attention without effort.
The woman beside him is stunning.
She has ice-blonde hair and is willowy.
She’s wearing a white gown that looks like it’s come straight from the runway, her blue eyes assessing me like I’m an ant under her designer shoe.
“Viktor,” Luca says, and I feel his posture shift slightly. He’s more alert, more focused. “I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Giuliana Conti.” Oh, now the doctor title has been removed. How nice.
“Giuliana,” Luca continues, “Viktor Torrino and his daughter, Natasha.”
My mouth dries. This is the man.