Page 22 of Shadows of Steel

But it is my reality now, one I cannot escape. In the Camorra, the Outfit, in this world, divorce is not an option. So I will do what I must.

I will endure.

Still, if my husband believes he is gaining a submissive wife, he is gravely mistaken.

I belong to no man.

And if he expects a devoted, soft-spoken bride, he is in for a rude awakening.

I will give him headaches.

I will spend his money.

And I will defy him at every possible turn.

I don’t even know what kind of arrangement I’ll have with Leonardo. And frankly, I don’t care.

If he chooses to seek comfort elsewhere, I won’t stand in his way. In fact, I’ll gladly do the same. I have my own needs, after all.

I push the thought aside as I step into a boutique. The sales assistant looks up, her gaze flicking between me and the two men at my back. The shift in her expression is immediate, her spine straightens, and a poised yet eager smile graces her lips.

“Buongiorno, signorina! How may I assist you?”

“Buongiorno.” I reply. “I'm looking for a dress.”

“For what occasion, if I may inquire? Or do you have a particular preference, something long, short, elegantly fitted?”

“My engagement party.” Or my death sentence. But I keep that thought to myself. Perhaps it's a touch dramatic.

Or not.

Depends on how one chooses to view it.

The assistant’s gaze flickers with curiosity, a glimmer of intrigue she swiftly conceals behind her discreet professionalism. “Congratulations on your engagement! Would you be considering white?”

“No. A deep scarlet perhaps.”

She offers a nod. “Of course, signorina. Right this way.”

She leads me toward the dressing area, gesturing to the plush seating. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll bring a selection for you to try. Would you care for a glass of champagne? Or perhaps some wine, coffee, water, or tea?”

“Champagne will do, thank you.” I decide.

She disappears for a few moments and returns with a silver tray, a chilled bottle, a flute, and a small dish of strawberries. She pours the drink, then leaves me in solitude. I exhale slowly, lifting the glass to my lips. The bubbles fizz against them, crisp and light.

Let the show begin.

Moments later, she returns with an array of dresses, presenting them one by one. I place the flute down, slip off my clothes, and begin trying them on.

The first dress is an immediate rejection, the moment it’s on, I strip it off without a second thought. The next few fail to meet my expectations, none making the statement I want. Nothing feels right.

Women hold a power men will never possess, and part of that power lies in how we present ourselves. Our wardrobe is more than fabric, it is a weapon, a declaration. I am searching for something that strikes the perfect balance between sensuality and elegance, dominance and refinement. There is a fine line between alluring and vulgar, and I have no intention of crossing it tonight.

As I slip into yet another design, having long lost count, I turn to face the mirror, and I know.

This is the one.

The fabric spills to the floor, flowing like liquid silk, yet the daring slit along my right leg adds an edge of intrigue. The deep scarlet hue is exactly what I had envisioned, a shade that complements my complexion perfectly. The neckline exposes my collarbones and just a hint of my décolletage, not enough to reveal, but enough to entice. It is the embodiment of understated sensuality, the kind that invites curiosity without giving too much away. The fabric clings to my figure, accentuating every curve without appearing excessive.