The gold GPS pendant felt like a brand against Amara's skin. Every time she moved, the cold metal reminded her that Lorenzo was watching.
Two days had passed since her failed escape. The mansion was quiet again, the bullet holes in the outer walls already patched by silent workers. But the tension inside was louder than any gunshot.
"Wear this," Lorenzo said, tossing a garment bag onto her bed.
Amara opened it. Inside was a gown of shimmering midnight blue, covered in tiny crystals that looked like fallen stars. Beside it lay a mask made of delicate black lace.
"What is this?" she asked, her voice small.
"The Emerald Gala," Lorenzo replied, checking his reflection in the tall mirror. He was dressed in a tuxedo that made him look like a dark god. "Every major family in Chicago will be there. The Morettis, the Romanos... and us."
Amara stood up, clutching the dress. "You're taking me? Out in public? After what happened at the gate?"
Lorenzo turned, his gray eyes tracking the movement of her throat. "I am the King of this city, Amara. If I hide you, it looks like I am afraid. If I paraded you, it shows them that I own the very thing they want to kill."
"I am not a trophy, Lorenzo."
He walked toward her, his steps slow and predatory. He reached out, his gloved hand tilting her chin up. "Tonight, you are exactly that. You will stay by my side. You will not speak. You will smile and let them wonder why the man who kills for sport is keeping a waitress alive."
Hours later, the grand ballroom of the Blackstone Hotel was a sea of silk and shadows. Music played, but the air felt heavy. Every eye turned as Lorenzo De Luca entered with a masked woman on his arm.
Amara felt the heat of a hundred stares. She could feel the hatred coming from the men in the corners—men with scars and cold smiles.
"Don't look at them," Lorenzo whispered, his hand tightening slightly on her waist. "Look only at me."
They were halfway across the floor when a man stepped into their path. He was older, with silver hair and a cruel mouth. Silvio Moretti.
"Lorenzo," Silvio said, his eyes sliding to Amara. "Is this the little bird everyone is fighting over? She looks fragile. A single gust of wind might break her."
Lorenzo didn't flinch. He pulled Amara closer, his body a shield of solid muscle. "She is sturdier than she looks, Silvio. And she is under my roof. Which means she is off-limits."
Silvio laughed, a sound like dry leaves. "Nothing is off-limits in a war, boy. Even a King can lose his crown over a pretty face."
As Silvio walked away, Amara felt a cold drop of sweat slide down her back. She realized this gala wasn't a party. It was a target practice.
"Lorenzo," she whispered, leaning into him. "We shouldn't be here."
"I know," he murmured, his eyes scanning the balcony above. "But now they know exactly who you belong to. And they know that to touch you is to declare war on me."
Suddenly, the lights in the ballroom flickered and died. A scream pierced the music. In the pitch black, Amara felt Lorenzo's arm wrap around her like an iron band.
"Stay down," he hissed.
The first shot rang out, and the glass ceiling above them shattered.
The Gala has turned into a trap! Will Lorenzo be able to get Amara out of the hotel alive? Would you like to see the action in Chapter 8: Shattered Glass?