Page 61 of Dangerous King (Savage Kings of New York #2)

The next night…

As if my world isn't a fairy tale enough already, the next morning, during breakfast, Eliza announces that the entire family, including mine, is going to a ball tonight. The same one I helped her with picking an outfit for. Her words come to my mind, not if you and Izzy go with me . She meant them!

I probably should pay much closer attention to what she says from now on, because I can't say that she didn't ambush me with this. Wily lady , I grin.

"The Russian Pakhan's balls are known for their splendor," Izzy claps her hands, "we're going to have so much fun!" Sabine's look of hurt doesn't escape me when Izzy turns straight to me, ignoring my sister.

I scramble to make up for it. "Oh, you can wear that red dress we bought the other day," I tell Sabine.

It works, and her face lights up. "You think so?"

"It was made for it." I nod. And because I don't want to cause any drama between her and Izzy, I turn to my friend next. "That light lavender gown you picked would be perfect."

Izzy's eyes sparkle, "You're right. I thought more for a summer ball, but… yeah, you're right."

"With your black hair, you will look like a vision." I nod.

"You'll have to put it all together for us," Izzy beams.

"And you have to do our makeup," I exclaim. Izzy is the best makeup artist I know, not that I know many, but that doesn't matter. She did mine the other day, and I was floored.

"Oh, yes, please," Sabine chimes in.

"Sure, sounds like fun," Izzy agrees.

And just like that, we excuse ourselves from the breakfast table and spend the rest of the day with tulle, petticoats, satin, powder, bronzer, and whatever else is needed to turn us into fairy princesses of the night.

Turns out Sabine is excellent with hair, impressing even Izzy.

"I've never had anybody get my hair like you do," Izzy gushes, turning her head left and right to admire the cut and curls Sabine added.

Sabine blushes. "I went to beauty school in Sicily. Nobody knows Italian hair better than an Italian hairdresser."

"Good point." Izzy nods.

"You should open a salon," I suggest. Sabine cut my hair into a butterfly cut that frames my face perfectly, before she piled most of it onto the top of my head, making it look complicated and effortless at once.

I hardly recognize my reflection in the mirror. From my updo, a few delicate strands of brown locks frame my face, softening the sharp lines of my jaw and drawing attention to the bow of my lips, which Izzy painted a deep rose that makes my amber eyes glow like polished whiskey in candlelight.

The gown itself is a marvel. Midnight blue, like the sky moments before true night.

Strapless, with a bodice that hugs every dip and curve of my torso before spilling out into a waterfall of layered satin and tulle.

The fabric shimmers subtly with every movement, like a whisper of stars has been sewn into its folds.

The hem skims the floor, the silhouette pure old-world glamour with just enough daring to make me feel both regal and dangerous.

My engagement ring glints on my finger, catching the light and accelerating my heartbeat every time I catch a glimpse.

Sabine clasps the final hairpin into place and meets my eyes in the mirror. "You look like a princess," she murmurs, almost reverent.

Izzy, standing behind her with a brush in hand and highlighter dust still clinging to her fingers, grins widely.

"No," she says. "Not a princess. A queen."

I swallow hard because that's exactly how I feel tonight. Like I belong in this world, not as a visitor, but as someone who's earned her place. Someone loved. Chosen. Seen.

"Thank you," I whisper, and for the first time in a long time, I mean it in more ways than one.

A near-reverent hush falls over the hall of the grand staircase as we descend.

The silk of my gown whispers with every step; the soft sweep of satin echoes down into the vast foyer below.

The lights are low, golden, and romantic.

Every inch of this mansion is curated for spectacle and power.

But all of that fades the second my eyes find him.

Enrico.

He's dressed in a black tuxedo that fits like sin and power stitched together. His hair is slicked back, the strong lines of his jaw dark with stubble, and his eyes… they drink me in like I'm water in a desert. He doesn't blink. Doesn't move. Just stares like I've knocked the air out of him.

Beside him, his brothers—Dante, Mattheo, and Tommaso—stand looking as devastatingly dangerous as ever in their suits, flanked by Rizio, Cesare, and my brothers, all cleaned up and regal.

But it's Enrico who holds the center of gravity.

The man I'm going to marry. The man who makes me feel like none of the pain in my past ever touched me.

He doesn't say anything at first. Just stares, slow and awed.

"Ravishing." His voice is hoarse, sending shivers down my spine. "You've ruined me, Cat. I'll never recover."

My breath catches, lips trembling with the smile I can't hide. He steps forward and pulls a long, thin box from behind his back. It's wrapped in soft velvet, and the name Volare is embossed in gold script across the top.

I blink at it. "Enrico…"

He opens it slowly, and my eyes fall on a collar-style necklace in platinum, studded with deep yellow diamonds that match my engagement ring perfectly.

Earrings as well, twin drops of golden fire.

Plus, two delicate bracelets, one for each wrist. Together, it looks like the sun itself was caught and molded into pieces just for me.

"They said they missed their friend," Enrico murmurs, plucking the necklace from the box with steady fingers. "So I told them they could come along tonight."

My chest burns as he fastens the necklace around my throat, his fingers brushing my skin like a lover's vow. He adds the earrings, then slides the bracelets into place with a possessive gentleness that makes my knees weak.

When he's done, he steps back, and the entire room seems to blur.

"Now you look like the queen I always knew you were," he murmurs.

I can barely breathe. From somewhere, far, far away, Izzy's squeals penetrate the thick cotton fog surrounding my head. Arms grab me, embrace me, and I hear her snicker at Enrico, "You go, bro! Who knew you had it in you?"

He chuckles low, not taking his eyes off me. "You're not the only one full of surprises."

In the corner, I nearly miss the flicker of a frozen smile on Sabine's face. Her lips are pressed tight, she has her hands clutched at her sides, and there is a gleam of something ugly in her eyes that I want to forget as soon as possible, because tonight is for happiness only.

I blink, almost dizzy from the whirlwind of emotion. From the weight of the jewels, from his hands on my skin, from the way he looks at me like I'm every last star in his sky.

It gets only better from there. Instead of Enrico's customary Hummer, we pile into three limousines. Inside the limousine, everything sparkles: glass, satin, the glint of diamonds on my skin. But nothing shimmers more than the way Enrico looks at me.

He sits close enough that our thighs brush, his hand never straying from mine.

The ride is a blur of lights and laughter.

Izzy sips champagne like it's liquid gold.

Eliza reminisces about her debut at a don's ball.

My brothers, for once, are quiet, and Sabine…

Sabine is watching me, smiling too perfectly.

But I can't bring myself to care. Not when the world outside becomes something out of a dream.

"They're astonishing, Cat." Sabine's fingers graze my bracelets. Next, her eyes devour my necklace, and I self-consciously move my hand toward it.

Before I can reach the new jewelry, Enrico takes my hand and kisses it, "You look stunning. You'll be the belle of the ball."

Sabine nervously clutches her small, gem-studded purse. Izzy leans in toward her with her warm, Izzy smile. "Your first?"

Sabine nods and mutters, "Yes." Her voice is hoarse, and I'm glad Izzy is taking her under her wing. A job I should be doing, but honestly, I'm so overwhelmed, I'm not sure I could do half as good a job as Izzy is doing. "I've got you."

Sabine smiles gratefully up at her, and my chest warms at the thought of the two of them becoming friends too.

We arrive at the Arsenyev estate, Grigori Arsenyev's—the Russian Pakhan of the Bratva in New York—mansion. But mansion isn't the right word. The place is a palace.

A towering monument of white stone and gilded arches, lit by hundreds of torches lining the curved drive and walkways that cut through the park-like grounds.

A massive fountain gurgles in the center, surrounded by roses, and its marble basin glows gold in the firelight.

Men in black tuxedos, armed to the teeth, line the steps, a show of force dressed in elegance.

At the base of the red carpet, Enrico helps me out of the car. He takes my hand, and I swear I can't feel the ground under my feet.

"Are you ready?" he murmurs.

"To be led to the slaughter?" I laugh nervously.

He chuckles, "Not on my watch."

The doors open, and we step into a fairytale.

The foyer is enormous, with two spiraling staircases that frame the grand hall like a scene from a royal ball.

Crystal chandeliers drip light from the vaulted ceiling, reflecting off polished gold and white columns.

Waiters glide by in black coats, balancing trays of champagne and canapés.

Tuxedos and silk gowns sparkle with every turn.

We move through the grand foyer, up one staircase, where a man at the top stops us to announce our names.

"Enrico Sartori and his fiancée, Catalina Costa. "