Chapter 8
Princess
M y hand moves across the satin dresses that the dressmaker brought with her.
It’s midafternoon on a beautiful fall day.
And Mother has me locked up in this damn room, sifting through dresses for an event.
She wants us to stand out when all I want is to blend into the background.
That way I can watch from the shadows. No one suspects the wallflower in the corner of stalking one of the most powerful men in the city.
“Would you give us a moment, Ariel?” Mother politely smiles at the dressmaker as she makes her way out before turning to me.
“Princess, for heaven’s sake, would you pick a dress already?
I’ve tried to be nice and help you with suggesting a couple of beautiful dresses for the charity ball, but you keep finding something wrong with them. ”
If I ever take her advice, please feel free to shoot me in between the fucking eyes. She wants me to look like a hooker, and she’ll look like she’s pimping me out.
“I appreciate your suggestions. But I was hoping for something simpler.”
I’m not hoping for shit. Who doesn’t want to dress to the nines and look magnificent? But if you want to stalk someone, you stay in the background and try to look as boring as the damn wallpaper. So insignificant that they can practically see through you.
My mother, of course, doesn’t seem to agree with the notion. As a matter of fact, she looks downright offended by the mere mention of wanting a simpler dress.
“Don’t be stupid. You’re going to a charity gala , not down to the store.”
She calls Ariel back into the room, who avoids eye contact. I don’t blame her.
The racks groan under the weight of silk and satin, endless gowns in shades of crimson, sapphire, and pearl. My fingers skim the fabric, cool and smooth, but none of them feel right. Too bright, too soft, too delicate. I need something that doesn’t just shimmer in the shadows, but commands them.
Then I see it. The dress hangs in the dim light like a whisper of midnight.
Black tulle cascades in delicate layers, pooling at the hem in a ghostly train.
The bodice is sculpted and cinched at the waist, structured yet fluid, as if the fabric itself is molded to a woman’s curves.
Off-the-shoulder sleeves drape in sheer folds, barely-there wisps of darkness that hint at bare skin beneath.
Long gloves rest beside it, as if the dress isn’t complete without them.
A dress made for secrets. A dress made for sin.
This isn’t just a gown; it’s armor, it’s seduction, it’s power wrapped in silk and shadow.
I reach for it, the weight of it pressing into my hands like an unspoken promise. The silk brushes against my skin as I lift the dress from its hanger, the weight of it settling into my hands like it belongs to me. Like was made for me.
I turn toward my mother, who lounges on the chaise with a glass of something golden, watching me with her usual scrutiny.
“This one.” My voice is steady. Final.
Mother arches a perfectly sculpted brow, taking in the black tulle, the sheer draping, the way the fabric drinks the light instead of reflecting.
Her lips purse in disapproval. “You’ll look like you’re going to a nineteenth-century funeral.”
I resist the urge to tighten my grip on the fabric. “It’s understated.”
“It’s dull,” she corrects sharply. “Where is the color? The embellishment? This is a charity ball, not a wake.”
I meet her gaze. “I don’t want to stand out.”
She laughs—a sharp, short sound. “Don’t be ridiculous. You are supposed to stand out. You’re a Gambi.”
“No,” I say, leveling my voice. “I just want to blend in.”
Her amusement vanishes like smoke.
“You are my daughter,” she says, voice low and dangerous, the way it always is when she feels defied. “And my daughter does not fade into the background like some…forgettable little thing.”
I know how this goes. How she expects this to go. She wants me to bend, to bow, to smooth things over before she decides I need a lesson in obedience.
I don’t. I hold her gaze. “I’m wearing this.”
Her fingers twitch against the delicate stem of her glass. For a moment, the room is silent—only the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, the careful breath of the dressmaker, and the tension stretching between us like a drawn wire.
Then, just as suddenly, she exhales and leans back against the chaise. “Fine.”
That’s it. No slap. No shattered glass on the floor. No raised voice. But I know better than to think I’ve won. She’s letting this go for now .
She picks up her glass, swirling the liquid inside. “But don’t think for a second there won’t be consequences.”
I say nothing. There’s nothing to say. I have what I want. And as long as I blend in on the night of the ball, nothing else matters.
My uncle lives on the Gambi estate, which sits at the edge of New York City, an opulent fortress of glass and steel, perched high enough to make the skyline look like it belongs to them.
The weight of its security is invisible but ever-present: cameras tucked into corners, armed men who don’t bother pretending they aren’t watching.
Even the air smells like power, expensive cigars, and control.
I’m escorted inside without question. They know better than to stop me.
Uncle Stefano is waiting in his office, feet propped up on the edge of his desk, a glass of dark amber liquid in his hand.
He looks up as I enter, his sharp eyes skimming over me with the same assessing gaze he’s given me since I was a child.
Calculating. Always watching. He’s my dad’s half-brother, and only a couple of years older than me.
“Princess,” he drawls, like the name is an inside joke only he gets. “You’re a long way from home.”
I offer a small smile, carefully measured. “I was in the area.”
A lie, but we both know that. His office is sleek, all dark wood and leather, with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city. A few open crates sit in the corner, stacks of black rifle cases beside them. Nothing is out of place. Nothing is ever out of place with my uncle.
I settle into the chair across from him, crossing my legs, mirroring his ease. “I figured it’s been a while since we’ve caught up.”
He tilts his glass, watching the liquid swirl. “Is that what this is? A social call?”
I keep my expression unreadable. “Would that be so strange?”
His lips twitch like he might smile, but it never quite forms. He takes a slow sip of his drink, then sets the glass down with a deliberate click.
“Depends,” he says. “You don’t usually make time for your family unless you really want something. And it’s not like your mother is fond of me.”
The words land between us, heavy and unspoken. I don’t flinch.
“Maybe I just missed you,” I say smoothly. “You are my favorite half-uncle.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “I’m your only half-uncle.”
I shrug, leaning back in my chair. “Still counts.”
He studies me for a beat, too long, eyes dark and dissecting. “What do you want, Princess?”
I take a breath, keeping my voice light. “Are you going to the Maronis’ Charity Ball?”
His gaze sharpens—just a flicker, but I catch it. “Why?”
I let my shoulders rise in a casual shrug. “Just curious. Everyone in the city will be there, after all. I imagine you’d want a presence.”
His fingers tap against the armrest of his chair. “I don’t make a habit of throwing myself into rooms full of politicians and socialites.”
“Funny,” I say, tilting my head. “I thought that’s exactly what you do.”
His smirk is slow, lazy, but his eyes are still sharp. “And I thought you hated parties.”
I match his expression. “Maybe I’m feeling social.”
He hums, swirling the glass in his hand. “You’re playing a game, but I haven’t figured out which one yet.”
A prickle of tension slides down my spine, but I don’t let it show.
“ Me ?” I press a hand to my chest in mock offense. “That hurts, Uncle Stefano.”
He doesn’t laugh. Instead, he leans forward, elbows on his desk, voice dropping into something quieter meant just for me.
“I see things, Princess. I see you . You’ve been watching people too closely. Slipping away when you think no one notices. Getting lost in your own head. And now, suddenly, you care about who’s going to be at a charity ball?”
The room feels smaller. The air, thinner.
He watches me like a predator waiting to see if its prey will run. I keep my face still, my breath steady.
“I like to know what’s happening in the city I live in.”
My uncle doesn’t blink. “No. You like control.”
Something cold curls in my stomach, but I hide it. Instead, I let out a slow, amused smile pull at my lips.
“Well…” I say, standing, brushing imaginary lint from my sleeve. “That makes two of us.”
I can feel his eyes on me as I move toward the door.
“Princess.”
I pause, but don’t turn around.
His voice is soft, but there’s steel beneath it. “Whatever it is you’re planning…don’t be stupid.”
I lift my chin. “When have I ever been stupid?”
Silence. I don’t wait for an answer.
I step out of the office, my heart pounding, but my expression neutral. And as I walk through the halls of his estate, past the silent guards and crates of weapons, the weight of my uncle’s warning lingers in my chest.
Uncle Stefano knows something. And I need to be careful.