Chapter 6
My hand trembles against the hidden latch I've just discovered in Van's closet wall.
I should stop. Walk away. Respect his privacy like any decent person would.
Instead, I press harder, and the panel gives way with a soft click.
The room beyond stops my breath entirely.
Leather restraints hang from custom hooks with military precision.
A padded bench sits in the center—definitely not for sitting, I realize with a flutter low in my belly.
Everything arranged with the same careful control as the rest of Van's life, but this speaks to needs I've felt but never had words for.
My heart hammers as I step inside, barely breathing.
The taste of his kiss still lingers—if he hadn't been so in control of himself, who knows what might have happened?
The silk restraints are softer than my most expensive lingerie.
They smell faintly of leather oil and something else that makes my pulse quicken in ways I'm only beginning to understand.
Good Rosetti princesses don't think about being tied up. Don't wonder what surrender would feel like with someone who sees past the princess facade.
Someone exactly like Van.
The arrangement reminds me of a Mapplethorpe photograph—beauty in the forbidden, art in what others might call deviant.
When I imagine these restraints against my wrists, my breathing goes shallow.
For the first time in my life, I'm imagining giving up control because I want to, not because someone's taking it from me. The difference feels revolutionary.
Everything here whispers of power exchanged rather than seized. Trust given instead of demanded.
The leather goods are expensive, maintained with surgical care. A flogger hangs beside silk blindfolds. Padded cuffs rest in perfect alignment. This isn't about violence—it's about connection, about vulnerability chosen rather than forced.
I've spent years wondering what it would feel like to trust someone this completely. Now I know exactly who that someone could be.
The sound of a key in the front door freezes me in place.
He's early.
I scramble to close the hidden door, heart racing as footsteps cross the living room. By the time Van appears in the bedroom doorway, I'm standing by his window admiring the view, praying my face doesn't betray what I've discovered.
"You're back early," I say, aiming for casual and probably missing by miles.
His eyes sweep the room, taking in details I can't even see. He notices everything—my too-stiff posture, my unsteady breathing, the flush burning across my cheeks.
"Emergency surgery got cancelled." But his attention isn't on explaining. It's on me, and the weight of his stare makes my pulse flutter.
I nod like this is perfectly normal conversation, like I haven't just discovered his most private space. Like I'm not still warm from imagining those silk restraints around my wrists.
"That's good! More rest for you. Rest is important. Surgeons need rest." Stop talking, Carmela.
"Carmela." My name in his voice stops my babbling. "What did you find?"
The question hangs heavy between us. I could lie, play innocent, but something in his expression—aware, not angry—tells me he already knows.
"I was just admiring your… very organized closet?" The words come out like a question, my default cheerfulness cracking under pressure. "You have excellent hangers. Very… sturdy."
His mouth twitches slightly. "Exploring," he says, stepping closer. I catch hospital disinfectant mixed with something darker, uniquely him. "It's a natural response to new environments."
His eyes drop to my hands, still trembling slightly. The air between us grows thick with unspoken understanding.
"Some boundaries exist for protection, Carmela," he says, voice low and measured. "Others exist because crossing them changes everything." His gaze holds mine. "The question is whether you're ready for everything to change."
My stomach chooses that moment to growl loudly, breaking the tension with mortifying timing.
Van's mouth quirks. "When did you last eat?"
"Yesterday? I didn't feel like breakfast."
He moves toward the kitchen with purpose. "Sit. I'll make eggs."
We navigate around each other, learning new choreography. Every accidental touch—his hand brushing mine reaching for coffee, my shoulder bumping his arm—feels charged with possibility.
"You cook," I observe, watching him crack eggs.
"Basic survival skill." His eyes keep finding me, cataloging my reactions. "Did you find everything you were looking for?"
The question hangs in the air, loaded with possibility. I'm trying to find an answer that doesn't make me sound like a complete deviant when my phone rings.
Dom's name flashes across the screen.
"Hey, Dom," I say.
"Hey Carm, how do you feel about playing Cinderella tonight?"
I blink, still rattled. "What?"
"Charity gala at the Four Seasons. Very last minute, very important." His voice carries that mix of affection and manipulation he's perfected. "I need you there."
My stomach drops. "Dom, I can't just—"
"Package already on its way. Midnight blue. Hair and makeup at four."
"You don't understand, I'm not in New York—"
"In Chicago with Van, I know. Which is why this works perfectly. Van's invited too. Consider it your first official appearance as a couple."
I glance at Van, who's clearly listening despite pretending to focus on scrambled eggs. "Dom—"
"This isn't optional, Carmela. The Torrinos are making moves. We need to show strength." His voice softens slightly. "Sometimes independence means choosing your battles wisely."
The words sting more than they should. This is exactly what I ran from—family obligations disguised as choices, my life arranged around their needs.
But looking at Van's rigid shoulders, I realize Dom's right about one thing. We can't hide forever, pretending the world outside this apartment doesn't exist.
"What kind of gala?" I ask.
"Medical research fundraiser. Van's world, actually. He'll fit right in."
Of course Dom already knows exactly how to frame this. Make it about Van's comfort instead of family duty, like he's doing me a favor.
"Fine," I say, hating how easily I cave. "We'll be there."
"Excellent. Car at seven-thirty. Oh, and Carm? Try to have fun. You might be surprised how good it feels to use the family name as a weapon instead of running from it."
When I hang up, Van turns to face me. "Your brother doesn't leave much to chance."
"Never has." I accept the perfectly prepared eggs. "Are you okay with this? Playing couple in public?"
Something flickers in his expression—too quick for me to read. "Is that what we'll be playing?"
The question sends a shiver through me. "I don't know what we are, Van."
"Neither do I," he admits. "But tonight, you stay close. No wandering off." His voice drops. "Tonight, you're mine."
"Yours?"
"To protect. To keep safe." His fingertips brush my cheek with unexpected gentleness. "To worry about when you explore places you shouldn't."
The expensive gown arrives within the hour—midnight blue silk that flows like water. Dom's perfect orchestration, transforming our awkward morning into something requiring formal partnership.
The dress transforms me from runaway to something more sophisticated—off-shoulder design showing my collarbones, bodice fitted perfectly, skirt falling in elegant lines. Delicate beading catches the light like stars scattered across the midnight sky.
"Carmela?" Van calls. "Car's here in ten minutes."
"Coming," I call, checking my lipstick once more.
Van stops mid-motion with his cufflinks when I emerge. For a moment, neither of us speaks. The age gap has never been more apparent—I look like youthful glamour while he embodies dangerous sophistication.
His tuxedo emphasizes broad shoulders and controlled power. That hair perfectly styled, eyes darker against black fabric.
"You look…" He trails off, jaw working.
"Like a proper princess?" I supply with slight bitterness. I almost say 'mafia princess' but catch myself—if Van doesn't know exactly what my family does, I'd like to keep it that way.
"Like trouble," he says quietly. "The kind that starts wars."
Something shifts at his words. The girl who fled New York would have blushed. But the woman who discovered his hidden room meets his gaze directly.
"Good. I'm tired of being safe."
His eyes travel down, taking in how the dress clings. When they meet mine again, there's something predatory that steals my breath.
"I see a woman who'll have every man wondering what it would take to make her theirs," he says, voice rough. "And I see myself making clear that answer is nothing they can afford."
The possessiveness thrills me more than it should. This is new—acknowledgment of what's building between us.
"Van," I whisper, uncertain what I'm asking.
He steps closer, close enough I must tilt my head back. Close enough to see his pulse jumping, matching my racing heart.
The car horn breaks the spell.
"Ready?" He offers his arm like a gentleman.
"Let's go play the part."
The Four Seasons glitters with wealth that makes Rosetti parties look modest. Chicago's elite in their finest, champagne flowing freely.
Van's hand rests at the small of my back—possessive but subtle. Perfect public performance.
I notice things now—how he catalogs every face, every exit. The tension in his shoulders. How he keeps me on his left, away from his dominant hand.
"Mr. Reyes, Ms. Rosetti. Welcome to the Midwest Medical Research Gala. Table twelve."
Of course Dom arranged premium placement.
Moving through the crowd, I spot Torrino watchers trying to blend. Men whose posture doesn't match their suits, women whose jewelry seems off.
"How many?" I murmur against his ear.
"Six confirmed. Probably more."
The knowledge should frighten me. Instead, I feel strangely calm.
A waiter passes with champagne. Van hands me a glass, our fingers brushing. I wonder if he's remembering our kiss like I am.
"To playing our parts," he says.
"To dangerous evenings," I counter.
The crystal rings clear as we drink. Van's hand returns to my back, thumb brushing bare skin. The simple contact sends warmth through me, intensified by the public setting.
"Carmela," I breathe.
He leans closer, mouth near my ear. To observers, we're sharing intimacies. But his words make me shiver.
"When we get home," he whispers, voice controlled but intense, "we're going to discuss what you found. What it means. What you want." His breath ghosts across my ear. "And if you still want to explore that room, I'll teach you exactly what trust means."
My champagne glass trembles. The ballroom fades. There's only Van's promise and my body's immediate response—anticipation mixed with nervous excitement.
"Van," I whisper.
He straightens, hand still possessive at my back. When he looks at me, I see promise and control and something that makes my knees weak.
"Smile," he murmurs. "We have a performance to give."
I smile bright and perfect while inside I'm burning with curiosity about what the night will bring. About what trust means to a man like Van.
I can hardly wait to find out.