Chapter 4 - The Silk in the Shadows
By Thursday morning, a heavy, gray ceiling of lake-effect clouds hung over the Gold Coast, suffocating the city in an unnatural, twilight gloom.
The Moretti mansion was buzzing with the frenzied, mechanical activity of a royal court preparing for a state execution disguised as a high-society wedding. Florists from Michigan Avenue were unloading eighty thousand dollars worth of white lilies and silver eucalyptus into the foyer; ice sculptors were carving life-sized swans on the rear terrace; and tailors were pacing the hallways with measuring tapes draped over their shoulders.
In the third-floor east suite, I stood beside the tall French doors, testing my weight against the hardwood floor.
The pain in my right shin was still sharp, a dull, hot throb that radiated into my ankle, but Dr. Harris’s stitches had held firm. The heavy swelling had receded into an ugly, yellow-green bruise beneath the fresh white elastic bandage Mrs. Carter had wrapped around my calf that morning.
A soft, discreet knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” I called out, reaching for the back of the velvet armchair to steady myself.
The door swung open, and Mrs. Carter stepped inside, followed by two young footmen carrying an enormous, wheeled garment rack draped in dark canvas.
“Good morning, Lucy,” Mrs. Carter said warmly, her face glowing with an excitement she hadn't displayed in months. “Mr. Moretti instructed that you are to be fitted immediately.”
I blinked, my brow furrowing in confusion. “Fitted? For what, Mrs. Carter? My housekeeping uniform is down in the laundry annex. I told you, I can manage the light dusting in the library today—”
“You aren't touching a duster in this house ever again, child,” Mrs. Carter said, shooing the footmen toward the center of the room. “Unzip it, boys.”
The footmen pulled the heavy brass zipper of the canvas cover down.
My breath stopped in my throat.
Hanging on the rack was an evening gown of heavy, midnight-blue silk velvet.
It was breathtaking. The neckline was a soft, modest square cut trimmed with microscopic platinum beads that caught the gray light from the window like fallen stars; the long, tailored sleeves were made of sheer, reinforced French Chantilly lace; and the skirt fell in sweeping, elegant pleats that looked heavy enough to weather a storm yet soft enough to float over water.
Beside the gown hung an overcoat of pure black cashmere with a discreet sable collar, paired with low-heeled, orthopedic Italian leather boots crafted from glove-soft calfskin.
“Mrs. Carter...” I whispered, taking half a step backward, my hand trembling against the velvet chair. “This... this is an haute couture gown. This costs more than my father’s medical bills for three years. There’s been a mistake. This belongs in Miss Bellini’s dressing room.”
“Miss Bellini wouldn't know real elegance if it was handed to her on a silver platter,” Mrs. Carter replied crisply, stepping forward and running her hand over the velvet sleeve. “Mr. Moretti called the head designer at the Saks Fifth Avenue salon at three o'clock this morning. He gave them your measurements from your agency employment file. He told them that if this gown wasn't in this room by ten o'clock, he would buy the building and turn their showroom into a parking garage.”
My heart hammered against my ribs with such violent force I thought it might bruise my chest.
Luca.
Why was he doing this? Why was a man who moved millions in shadow shipping and held the fate of Chicago in his palms spending thousands of dollars to dress a housemaid whose shoes had been covered in pond mud forty-eight hours ago?
“Because in my world, Lucy, loyalty like that is not rewarded with an hourly wage.”
His words from the study echoed in the back of my skull, low, intimate, and dangerous as an open blade.
“Why do I need an evening dress, Mrs. Carter?” I asked, my voice barely audible.
The older woman turned to me, her kind blue eyes suddenly turning dark with an emotion that looked terrifyingly like triumph.
“Because tonight is the formal rehearsal gala at the Drake Hotel, Lucy,” Mrs. Carter murmured. “The five families of New York, Detroit, and Chicago have assembled in the Grand Ballroom. And Mr. Moretti has reserved the seat directly to his right for the director of his new maritime trust.”
May you like
She smiled, reaching out to pat my cheek with her warm, flour-dusted fingers.
“That’s you, child. Get dressed. The boss doesn't like to be kept waiting.”
