Chapter 8
Harlow
Today marks my engagement party.
And in the days to come, I will be a married woman.
I have long known this day would come, dreading its arrival with every fibre of my being. But dwelling on the unavoidable serves no purpose.
I know who I am.
I know my worth.
My grandfather and Michael remain in Italy and will stay through the wedding. My cousins will arrive in a few days, just in time for the ceremony. Since Sofia and Elena have yet to arrive, I am left to choose my engagement dress alone. A minor inconvenience. If I had to wager, Sofia will bring my wedding gown along with several backups, because, in her world, one is never enough.
In truth, it is a relief. I have no interest in this charade, nor the burden of orchestrating the details of a wedding I never wanted in the first place.
Last night, my brother assigned his men to watch over me, their presence an unspoken force lingering on the periphery, unseen yet ever vigilant. But when I stepped out of my apartment this morning, two more figures emerged, unfamiliar yet unmistakably meant to shadow me. These ones, it seemed, had been sent by my fiancé.
Now, I weave through the bustling streets, drifting from boutique to boutique in search of the perfect outfit for tonight, my newly assigned guards trailing behind like silent phantoms. Their vigilance is absolute, eyes scanning every movement, every shifting shadow.
I insisted on having only two men accompany me. No one was willing to risk the wrath of my brothers or my fiancé, so we compromised. Two would follow me openly, though I’m certain others linger beyond my line of sight, concealed in the crowd, ready to emerge at the first sign of danger.
The engagement celebration will be held here in Palermo. Dante wasn’t particularly pleased, his reluctance was evident, given that this isn’t his territory. But it’s only temporary. The wedding will take place in Naples.
His city.
My future home.
A strange thought, as I have never set foot in Naples, yet soon, it will become my world.
What if I hate it?
What if it never feels like mine?
Not that it matters. Whether I like it or not, I will belong to it, just as I will belong to my husband.
Husband.
Home.
Words that should evoke warmth but instead feel foreign on my tongue.
I’ve never truly had a home.
And I have no intention of making this one mine, either.
This is business. Nothing more.
But it is my reality now, one I cannot escape. In the Camorra, the Outfit, in this world, divorce is not an option. So I will do what I must.
I will endure.
Still, if my husband believes he is gaining a submissive wife, he is gravely mistaken.
I belong to no man.
And if he expects a devoted, soft-spoken bride, he is in for a rude awakening.
I will give him headaches.
I will spend his money.
And I will defy him at every possible turn.
I don’t even know what kind of arrangement I’ll have with Leonardo. And frankly, I don’t care.
If he chooses to seek comfort elsewhere, I won’t stand in his way. In fact, I’ll gladly do the same. I have my own needs, after all.
I push the thought aside as I step into a boutique. The sales assistant looks up, her gaze flicking between me and the two men at my back. The shift in her expression is immediate, her spine straightens, and a poised yet eager smile graces her lips.
“Buongiorno, signorina! How may I assist you?”
“Buongiorno.”
I reply.
“I'm looking for a dress.”
“For what occasion, if I may inquire? Or do you have a particular preference, something long, short, elegantly fitted?”
“My engagement party.”
Or my death sentence. But I keep that thought to myself. Perhaps it's a touch dramatic.
Or not.
Depends on how one chooses to view it.
The assistant’s gaze flickers with curiosity, a glimmer of intrigue she swiftly conceals behind her discreet professionalism.
“Congratulations on your engagement! Would you be considering white?”
“No. A deep scarlet perhaps.”
She offers a nod.
“Of course, signorina. Right this way.”
She leads me toward the dressing area, gesturing to the plush seating.
“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll bring a selection for you to try. Would you care for a glass of champagne? Or perhaps some wine, coffee, water, or tea?”
“Champagne will do, thank you.” I decide.
She disappears for a few moments and returns with a silver tray, a chilled bottle, a flute, and a small dish of strawberries. She pours the drink, then leaves me in solitude. I exhale slowly, lifting the glass to my lips. The bubbles fizz against them, crisp and light.
Let the show begin.
Moments later, she returns with an array of dresses, presenting them one by one. I place the flute down, slip off my clothes, and begin trying them on.
The first dress is an immediate rejection, the moment it’s on, I strip it off without a second thought. The next few fail to meet my expectations, none making the statement I want. Nothing feels right.
Women hold a power men will never possess, and part of that power lies in how we present ourselves. Our wardrobe is more than fabric, it is a weapon, a declaration. I am searching for something that strikes the perfect balance between sensuality and elegance, dominance and refinement. There is a fine line between alluring and vulgar, and I have no intention of crossing it tonight.
As I slip into yet another design, having long lost count, I turn to face the mirror, and I know.
This is the one.
The fabric spills to the floor, flowing like liquid silk, yet the daring slit along my right leg adds an edge of intrigue. The deep scarlet hue is exactly what I had envisioned, a shade that complements my complexion perfectly. The neckline exposes my collarbones and just a hint of my décolletage, not enough to reveal, but enough to entice. It is the embodiment of understated sensuality, the kind that invites curiosity without giving too much away. The fabric clings to my figure, accentuating every curve without appearing excessive.
A knock sounds at the door.
“Come in.” I call.
Luisa steps inside, her name tag glinting under the soft lighting. She stops abruptly, her mouth parting slightly as she takes in the sight before her.
“If you don’t mind me saying,”
she breathes.
“you look magnificent. This dress was made for you.”
“Thank you, Luisa. I’ll take it.”
After changing back into my own clothes, I make my way to the register, my bodyguards ever watchful, their presence a constant shadow. I settle the payment, leaving a generous tip for her before stepping out of the boutique and into the fading afternoon light.
As we reach the car, Giorgio, one of the men assigned to protect me, steps forward and opens the door. I slide into the back seat while Piero takes the wheel, he was assigned by my fiancé to watch over me. So there is no doubt, he’ll be by my side when we leave for Naples.
I bought this car when I first arrived in Italy, back when my plan was simple, travel the country, explore freely, live on my own terms. But I never got the chance.
I thought I had time.
I was wrong.
When we pull up in front of my apartment, Giorgio steps out and opens the door for me again. Piero follows, carrying my dress upstairs before giving me a brief nod and vanishing, likely taking up position by the door.
I head straight for the shower, letting the hot water wash away the tension clinging to my skin. I shampoo and condition my hair, exfoliate, cleanse, following my routine. There’s little else to do since I had a salon appointment just a few days ago. My waxing and nails are fresh, so I’m already good to go.
After my shower, I wrap a towel around my hair and slip into a silk robe. In my bedroom, I begin the process of drying and styling my hair before moisturizing and applying my makeup.
When I finally meet my own gaze in the mirror, my reflection is exactly as I intended, effortlessly striking. My makeup is subtle yet bold, just enough for a party. My hair, usually sleek and straight, falls in soft curls tonight. A rare change.
I sift through my closet, selecting a delicate lace bra and matching panties the same shade as my dress, before slipping them on. Then, I step into the gown I purchased, the fabric hugging my frame elegantly. To complete the look, I slide my feet into a pair of stilettos adorned with diamonds that encircle my ankles like shimmering cuffs.
A final glance in the mirror. A touch of perfume at my pulse points. I retrieve my clutch, exhale softly, and head for the door.
Let the night begin.