Chapter 9 - The Ivory Armor
|
By six o’clock the following evening, the master bedroom of the penthouse looked like a high-end designer showroom.
Two racks of haute couture evening gowns had been delivered directly from Bergdorf Goodman, courtesy of Vincent’s private buyers.
Arabella stood before the floor-to-ceiling mirror, clad in a loose robe, surveying the dresses with an arched eyebrow.
The door opened, and Vincent walked in, wearing an impeccable custom black tuxedo with silk lapels.
His hair was slicked back, his jaw freshly shaved, his dark eyes radiating pure authority.
He paused when he saw her standing, his eyes raking over her slender figure.
“You should be resting, Arabella.”
“I rested for twenty-four hours, Mr. Cavallo,” she said, turning toward him with a sly smirk.
“Now I have a dinner to attend.”
“You don't have to put yourself through this,” Vincent said softly, stepping closer until he stood directly behind her reflection.
“I can handle the Morettis alone.”
“You can handle them with bullets, Vincent,” she replied, meeting his gaze in the mirror.
“I can handle them with the truth.”
“And in a room full of old-school mafia dons, the truth cuts deeper than a switchblade.”
Vincent looked down at the garment rack.
“Which one are you wearing?”
Arabella reached out and pulled aside an exquisite gown made of heavy, liquid ivory silk.
It featured a modest, elegant cowl neckline, long bishop sleeves that completely covered the dark bruises on her wrists, and an open back that hinted at quiet glamour.
“This one,” she decided.
Vincent’s eyes darkened with raw appreciation.
“Ivory. Like an angel walking into a pack of wolves.”
“I am not an angel, Vincent,” she murmured, looking directly into his intense eyes.
“I work for the devil, remember?”
A slow, rare smile broke across Vincent’s handsome face, illuminating the sharp angles of his features.
“And the devil takes care of his own.”
Thirty minutes later, Arabella emerged from the dressing room.
The ivory silk gown clung to her curves with regal elegance, cascading down to the floor in fluid waves.
Her curly hair had been styled into an intricate, loose updo, leaving soft tendrils framing her high cheekbones.
A touch of makeup concealed the fading yellow bruise on her jaw, but she had refused to let the stylist hide the tiny cut on her upper lip.
She wanted them to see that she had been hit, and that she had survived.
Around her neck, on a delicate gold chain, hung the antique lion key she had nearly died to protect.
Vincent stood by the doorway, rendered entirely speechless.
For six years, he had seen her in conservative pencil skirts, crisp button-down blouses, and sensible wool cardigans.
He had always known she was beautiful, but seeing her like this took the breath completely out of his lungs.
“You look... magnificent,” he managed to say, his voice thick and low.
Arabella walked slowly toward him, her head held high despite the dull ache in her healing side.
“Let’s go show the Five Families who really runs this city,” she said.
Vincent offered her his arm, and as her gloved hand slipped around his bicep, he leaned down and pressed a warm kiss against her bare shoulder.
“Whatever happens tonight, Arabella, you stay behind me.”
May you like
“Not a chance, Mr. Cavallo,” she whispered back with a defiant grin.
“We walk in side by side.”
