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I snatched it up and raced back to the fitting room to slip into the emerald mini dress with a rhinestone corset top and draped skirt. The moment I stepped out in it, Samara nodded with approval.

“Damn, girl!” She squealed. “That dress was made for you. Ass lookin’ right! Titties sittin’ pretty! You look absolutely stunning.”

I studied my reflection in the mirror, turning to make sure my eyes caught every angle.

The dress was the color of money and good luck, and it fit me like a glove, accentuating my slim-thick figure and bringing out the color of my chestnut brown eyes.

I smiled wide and bright, feeling the rush of confidence I needed.

“Eek! I love it, Samara. I love it so much that I think I’m going to wear it out of the store and to my father’s club tonight.”

Samara laughed. “You should! You look great in it!”

As we headed to the checkout counter, I couldn’t help but feel a little lighter—in my step and in my heart.

My strides were effortless, never hurried, only smooth and controlled.

My reservations about my upcoming marriage were still apparent, especially with the swirling rumors about my fiancé.

But I was happy to have my best friend’s support and a new favorite dress.

The consultant behind the desk frowned when we approached, laughing and giggling with our bags and my two dresses in tow. “Hello, how can I help you two today?”

“Hi.” I greeted the consultant. “I’d like to purchase this dress and the one I have on, please.”

“Do you plan on taking it off first, ma’am?” she asked rudely.

I scoffed. “No, because I love it, and I want it on my body right now.”

“That dress is fourteen hundred dollars,” she explained.

“Do you see these designer bags hanging off my arm? I said I want it,” I repeated with a sharp hiss in my tone.

“In fact, another bag won’t be necessary.

Just ring it up along with the other dress.

I’m wearing it out of the store,” I confirmed while dropping cash on the counter and lifting my chin in defiance.

Wearing the emerald dress, I stepped out of the boutique with a transformed sense of confidence.

I was still nervous about the announcement of my engagement to Ozias Rivera, but for now, I vowed to hold onto the small wins.

I even started to embrace the idea that I had the power to shape my own happiness, even within the constraints of an arranged marriage to a homicidal maniac.

I shot Samara a half-moon smile. “Thanks for coming out with me today. I think I needed this retail therapy session more than I realized.”

She leaned in to give me a supportive hug. “Of course. You know I got you, girl.”

The click of my strappy, gold stilettos echoed through the dimly lit hallway, each step a declaration of my arrival.

I paused before the ornate double doors.

Their polished mahogany surface gleamed under the soft glow of crystal sconces.

Taking a deep breath, I smoothed down the brand-new emerald-green cocktail dress, feeling the cool silk against my almond-brown skin.

It’s fucking showtime.

I pushed open the doors, and the world of high-stakes luxury unfolded before me. The Emerald Room, my father’s crown jewel in his empire of sin, pulsed with an energy that was equal parts danger and decadence.

The air was thick with the scent of expensive cigars and even more costly perfume, an intoxicating mix that spoke of power and privilege.

My brown-eyed gaze swept across the room, taking in the opulent surroundings.

The walls were adorned with priceless artwork, each piece carefully curated to showcase wealth without being overzealous.

It didn’t matter if the art was purchased in blood money.

All that mattered was it appreciated in value.

Crystal chandeliers dangled from the ceiling, their facets catching and refracting light, creating a subtle dance of shadows across the faces of Chicago’s elite. As I made my way toward the main poker table, I couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride.

This was my world, a realm where fortunes were made and lost with the turn of a card. The plush emerald carpet muffled my steps, allowing me to observe the room’s occupants unnoticed for a moment longer.

To my left, a group of men in tailored suits huddled around a roulette wheel, their excited whispers punctuated by the rhythmic click of the ball.

To my right, the bar stretched the length of the wall.

Its polished surface gleamed under the soft lighting.

The bartender, a tall, slim-thick woman in a crisp white shirt, mixed drinks with the precision of an artist.

As always, there wasn’t a thing out of place. I approached the main table, where five men were already seated, their faces a mix of concentration and carefully cultivated nonchalance.

As I drew closer, heads turned, and conversations paused. I was used to those reactions; being Cyrus Malone’s daughter tended to have that effect on people.

“Gentlemen.” I greeted them, my rich, velvety voice carrying just the right amount of warmth and authority. “I trust you’ve left some chips for me?”

A chorus of chuckles rippled around the table. Those men, each powerful in their own right, knew better than to underestimate me. I might have been Cyrus Malone’s daughter, but I’d earned my place at their table through my own merit.

“Demi, you’re looking like money my dear,” called Vincent Jackson, a portly man with a skin tone like Godiva, a receding hairline, and a fondness for flashy rings. “We were beginning to think you wouldn’t grace us with your presence tonight.”

I slid into the empty seat, the leather cool against my bare arms. “And miss the chance to relieve you of your hard-earned cash, Vinnie? Never.”

The dealer, a slim young man with impeccable posture, began to shuffle the cards.

The soft whisper of cardstock against cardstock was like music to my ears.

I leaned back, crossing my smooth legs, and signaling to a passing server for my usual, a glass of eighteen-year-old Macallan, neat.

To run with the big boys, I had to learn to drink with the big boys and hold my own.

As the first hand was dealt, I took a moment to study my opponents.

Besides Vincent, there was Malcolm Reed, a shark-eyed lawyer who’d defended half the criminals in Chicago; Anatoly Volkov, a Russian arms dealer who I was certain had ice in his veins; Thomas Chen, a Chi-Town real estate mogul with a poker face to rival any statue; and lastly, Dominic Malone, my cousin and security detail and the only one at the table I trusted implicitly.

The game began, and I felt the familiar rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins. I thrived in the delicate dance of strategy and chance. I played my cards close to my chest, both literally and figuratively, as the stakes rose with each hand.

An hour into the game, I’d earned a respectable pile of chips. The conversation flowed as freely as the top-shelf liquor, a dangerous combination in a room full of secrets and lies. I sipped my whiskey, savoring the smoky flavor as I listened to the men around me boast and banter.

“So, Demi,” Anatoly said, his accent thick as he tossed chips into the pot. “When are you going to settle down? Surely, a beautiful young woman like you has no shortage of admirers.”

I arched an eyebrow, my lips curving into a sardonic smile to reveal the dimple on my right cheek. “Why, Anatoly, are you offering? I didn’t realize you were in the market for a wife who could outshoot, outplay, and outdrink you.”

The table erupted in laughter, and I caught Dominic’s approving nod. He knew as well as I did that in our world, showing weakness was a death sentence. And make no mistake, treating me like some prize to be won was a weakness I wouldn’t tolerate.

“Ouch. You wound me, woman,” Anatoly said, clutching his chest in mock pain. “But perhaps you’re right. I need a woman who knows her place, not one who’d challenge me at every turn.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees. I leaned forward, my eyes locked on his. “And what place would that be, Anatoly? Behind you? Beneath you? Or perhaps in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant?”

The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. I saw Malcolm and Thomas exchanging uneasy glances while Vincent suddenly became very interested in his cards. Dominic, always at the ready, looked willing to intervene if necessary.

Anatoly’s expression darkened, his jovial mask slipping to reveal the archaic misogynist underneath. “You forget yourself, girl. Your father may run this city, but you’re still just a—”

“Careful, mothafucka.” Dominic’s baritone voice sliced through the tension like a knife. “You’re talking to Cyrus Malone’s daughter inside of his club sitting at the table with his nephew. I’d choose my next words very carefully if I were you.”

I waved Dominic off, never breaking eye contact with Anatoly. “No, please, let him finish. I’m dying to hear what profound insight he has about my role in this world.”

Anatoly opened his mouth then seemed to think better of it. He muttered something in Russian that I was sure was less than complimentary and threw his cards down. “I fold.”

I leaned back with a triumphant smile playing on my lips. “Wise choice.”

The game continued, but the easy camaraderie from earlier had evaporated. I felt the weight of unspoken words and simmering resentments hanging in the air. It was a familiar feeling in this world of ours, where alliances shifted like sand, and today’s friend could be tomorrow’s enemy.