Chapter 13
There's a fundamental difference between dressing to be looked at and dressing to be respected.
During my nights at The Velvet Room, I dressed to be devoured.
Cleavage, sparkle, skin. I wanted to be consumed by their eyes because as long as they desired me, I felt like I existed.
Today, standing in front of the closet mirror that Cassian had generously stocked (while blocking my access to everything else), I was dressing for war.
I chose a black Tom Ford dress. Long sleeves, closed back, midi length.
The cut was so sharp it could draw blood.
No lace, no transparency. Just a severe, architectural silhouette that screamed old money and untouchability.
I pulled my hair into a low bun, slicked back, not a single strand out of place. On my lips, no red. Just a cold nude.
“Solaia?” Cassian's voice came from the hallway. Punctual. Impatient. “The car is waiting.”
I grabbed my clutch (which was empty except for a lipstick and a tissue, since my credit card was frozen in Cassian's digital hell) and walked out.
He was in the hall, checking his phone. When he heard my footsteps, he looked up.
He was wearing a three-piece pinstripe suit.
He looked like a 1920s banker about to order an execution.
His eyes swept over my body. He didn't smile.
He didn't compliment me. But he didn't frown either.
The inspection lasted three seconds. “Adequate,” he decreed. “Let's go.”
In the elevator, the silence was thick. “Who's the target?” I asked, staring at the metal doors.
“Don Salvatore Vitti.” Cassian didn't look at me.
“He controls the New York import routes.
He came to pay his respects to your father, but his real intention is to test the stability of my leadership.
He's old guard, Solaia. He thinks a Consigliere on the throne is an anomaly that needs to be corrected.”
“And why am I going?”
“Because Vitti is a traditionalist. He expects to see the D'Angelo heiress. He expects to see that I have control over the royal blood.” He turned to me, adjusting his glasses.
“Your job today is to be decorative. Eat little.
Drink even less. And for God's sake, don't speak unless he asks you a direct question.
Vitti doesn't appreciate women with opinions.”
I felt a stab of irritation but swallowed it. “Understood. I'm the ornamental plant.”
“Exactly. An expensive, silent plant.”
The restaurant, Il Gattopardo, was a temple of Italian gastronomy nestled in the heart of Chicago. Walls lined with burgundy velvet, amber lighting that made everyone look rich and mysterious, and the unmistakable scent of white truffles and sage butter.
Don Vitti was already at the table. He was a massive man with skin weathered by the Sicilian sun and white hair combed back. He had large hands full of gold rings and small, shrewd eyes that seemed to assess the cost of everything they saw.
When we approached, he didn't stand immediately. A small, calculated insult. “Cassian Varro,” he said, his voice hoarse from cigars. “Or should I say... Don Varro? The title still sounds strange on the tongue, doesn't it?”
“Salvatore,” Cassian responded, ignoring the provocation with his usual coldness. He extended his hand. Vitti shook it—a short, aggressive gesture.
Then the old man's eyes turned to me. He rose, but only by a few inches, and took my hand.
He didn't shake it; he held it like he was inspecting fruit at the market.
He kissed the air above my knuckles. “Signorina D'Angelo.
I hear you're the image of your mother. What a tragedy to lose Vittorio. A tragedy for all of us.”
“Signora Varro,” I corrected gently, withdrawing my hand.
Vitti raised a thick eyebrow, surprised by the correction, but laughed. “Of course, of course. The quick marriage. So... convenient.”
We sat. The tension at the table was palpable.
Cassian was rigid beside me, radiating that icy force field he used as a shield.
Dinner proceeded like a slow chess match.
Vitti launched veiled insults about Cassian's lineage (“mixed blood,” “street dog”), and Cassian countered with profit numbers and territorial expansion.
“Profit is good, son,” Vitti said, swirling his wine glass as the waiter served the main course (veal). “But respect... respect comes from history. From the soil. Chicago has always been D'Angelo territory. Seeing a man with no name in command... it worries the East Coast Families.”
Cassian stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth. “My name is on the contracts, Salvatore. And my bullets have the same caliber as Vittorio's. That should be history enough.”
Vitti laughed, a dry sound. “Bullets any idiot can buy. But class? Tradition?” He pointed to the wine bottle the sommelier had just brought.
“Look at this. A Brunello di Montalcino, Biondi-Santi. 1997 vintage. A serious wine. Complex. Not something you can manufacture in a laboratory, like... certain modern leaderships.”
He was calling Cassian a fake. Cheap wine in an expensive bottle. I saw Cassian's jaw clench. He was about to respond. And it would be aggressive. He'd insult Vitti, and the negotiation over the New York routes would collapse before dessert.
I looked at the bottle. Looked at Vitti. And decided I was tired of being a wallflower.
I reached out and gently touched Cassian's wrist where it rested on the table, his fist clenched. His skin was warm, thrumming with tension. He looked at me, his gray eyes warning: Don't you dare.
I ignored the warning. I squeezed his wrist, a silent signal: Let me handle this.
I turned to Don Vitti and smiled. Not the doll smile. The smile of Vittorio D'Angelo's daughter.
“It's interesting that you mention the Biondi-Santi, Don Salvatore,” I began, in perfect Italian, without a trace of an American accent, the Tuscan dialect rolling smoothly off my tongue.
Vitti blinked. Cassian froze beside me.
“My father used to say that Brunello is a wine of patience,” I continued, taking the bottle from the hovering sommelier. “The Sangiovese Grosso grape is temperamental. It needs difficult, rocky soil to develop strong roots. If the soil is too soft, the wine turns out weak.
I poured some into Vitti's glass with a steady hand.
The ruby liquid swirled in the crystal. “Cassian didn't grow in soft soil, Don Salvatore.
He grew in rock. That's why his structure…” I glanced briefly at my husband, who was watching me as if I'd just sprouted wings.
“…is so robust. He's not an imitation. He's an evolution of the vine.
Vitti looked at the wine, then at me. The condescension disappeared from his eyes, replaced by cautious curiosity. “You speak the language of the old country with the fluency of a native, child.”
“I was raised to be the wife of a king, not a manager,” I replied, keeping my tone sweet but lethal. “And I chose this man. If the D'Angelo heiress sees the value of the vintage, who are the East Coast Families to question her palate?”
Silence fell over the table. I had just done two things: validated Cassian's position using my bloodline as a seal of approval, and subtly insulted Vitti's intelligence for questioning my choice.
Cassian was motionless. He wasn't looking at Vitti. He was looking at me. For the first time, there was no contempt. No boredom. There was shock. And beneath the shock, something dark and warm ignited. Interest.
Vitti let out a booming laugh, slapping his hand on the table. “Brava!” He raised his glass to me. “You have Vittorio's fire in your eyes. And your mother's sharp tongue.”
He drank the wine, savoring it. “Very well, Varro. If you've managed to tame this lioness, maybe you can handle Chicago. Let's talk about the port percentages.”
The rest of the dinner was a blur. Vitti ate out of my hand. We talked about opera, about the harvest in Tuscany, about the decadence of modern art. I was the perfect hostess, the charming diplomat, the trophy wife who'd suddenly revealed herself to be made of solid gold, not plastic.
Cassian spoke little. He conducted business, but his attention was divided. I felt his gaze on my skin all night. He watched my mouth when I spoke Italian. He watched my hands when I gestured. He was reevaluating his entire dossier on me.
When we left the restaurant, the cold night air felt like a caress after the suffocating heat of the dining room. The valet brought the car.
We climbed into the limousine in silence. The door closed, isolating us from the world.
I waited for the criticism. I waited for him to say I'd talked too much, that I'd been insolent. I slipped off my heels, letting out a sigh of relief, and rested my head against the leather seat.
“Where did you learn that?” Cassian's voice broke the silence.
I didn't open my eyes. “Learn what? Italian? My grandmother. Wines? My father had a ten-million-dollar wine cellar, Cassian. I didn't spend all day drinking vodka and energy drinks. I paid attention.”
I felt the seat shift. He turned toward me. I opened my eyes. He was staring at me. Light from the streetlamps passed through the window, illuminating his face in intermittent flashes. Light and shadow. He looked… unsettled.
“You saved the negotiation,” he admitted. The words came out like stones in his mouth. He hated admitting he needed help. Especially mine.
“I know,” I replied simply.
“Vitti was about to walk away from the table. He doesn't respect me. But he respects you. Or at least, what you represent.”
“He respects that I didn't back down,” I corrected. “Men like him can smell fear. If I'd stayed quiet, picking at my salad, he would've thought you silenced me because I'm weak. By speaking up, I showed him I'm your partner. That gives you power.”
Cassian took off his glasses. He rubbed his eyes—a rare gesture of human fatigue. When he looked at me again, his unguarded eyes were intense. “I underestimated you.”
My heart beat faster. Those three words were worth more than any “I love you.” Coming from him, they were the highest compliment possible.
“Yes, you did,” I agreed, holding his gaze. “You think I'm just a walking credit card bill. You see the pink and the glitter and assume there's nothing underneath.”
I leaned forward slightly. “But I'm a D'Angelo, Cassian. I grew up in the same shark tank you did. The difference is you learned to bite, and I learned to charm the shark so it wouldn't eat me.”
He looked at my mouth. The air inside the car grew thick.
Charged. The sexual tension—always there, buried under layers of hatred and resentment—suddenly rose to the surface.
He didn't touch me. But the way he looked at me…
it was a touch. He wasn't looking at me as a problem to be solved, but as a puzzle he wanted to take apart.
“You were… useful,” he murmured, his voice hoarse.
I smiled. A slow smile, like the cat that got the cream. “Useful? Careful, husband. You might end up liking me.”
He leaned back in his seat, looking away, sliding the icy mask back into place. But I saw it. I saw the crack. “Don't push your luck, Solaia.”
The rest of the ride was silent, but it wasn't the oppressive silence from the drive over.
It was a conspiratorial silence. I'd earned a place at the table.
Not the kids' table. The chair beside him.
And from the way he gripped his own thigh, knuckles white, I knew the “ornamental plant” had just grown thorns he was dying to touch.
I looked out the window, watching Chicago pass by. The cold war was changing. The ice was starting to melt. And what lay underneath… well, that promised to be dangerous.