Chapter 5 - Rules of the Cage
The next test wasn't in the penthouse. It was in public.
Vittorio commanded our presence at the annual Chicago Merchants Gala—a high-society charity event held in a sprawling, crystal-chandeliered ballroom downtown, attended by politicians, real estate tycoons, and the heads of the city's four major mafia syndicates.
I wore a dark emerald silk gown that Vittorio’s stylist had dropped off earlier that afternoon. It fit like a second skin, accentuating curves I usually kept hidden behind oversized waitress aprons.
Dawson stood beside me in a bespoke charcoal tuxedo, looking every inch the ruthless prince of the underworld. But as we stepped out of the black armored SUV and walked up the red carpet, his hand rested firmly, possessively at the small of my back.
“Smile,” Dawson murmured against my ear as a dozen flashbulbs popped around us. “The vultures are watching.”
“I’m not smiling for the paparazzi, Dawson,” I whispered back, keeping my chin high as we entered the blinding glare of the ballroom. “I’m smiling because I know where you hid your spare car keys.”
Dawson let out a genuine, low chuckle—a sound so rare it made heads turn among the nearby socialites.
As soon as we entered the room, the whispers started.
“Who is that?” “Isn’t that the girl from the club? The one who dumped ice on him?” “Vittorio must have lost his mind letting a civilian into the inner circle.”
We walked toward the center table where Vittorio sat flanked by his senior capos. Before we could reach them, a tall, impeccably dressed man with slicked-back blond hair and a predatory grin stepped directly into our path.
Julian Rossi. Heir to the rival Rossi syndicate on the South Side.
“Dawson,” Rossi drawled, raising a crystal flute of champagne in mock salute. “I heard rumors your father hired a new pet to keep you on a leash. I didn't realize she’d be wearing a dress worth more than her family’s entire workshop.”
Dawson’s body went completely rigid beside me. The easy, arrogant posture vanished in a microsecond, replaced by the coiled, lethal tension of a predator ready to strike.
Before Dawson could lunge, I stepped forward.
I took a glass of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray, smiled sweetly at Rossi, and casually tossed the entire glass of golden liquid straight across the front of his custom Italian silk tuxedo shirt.
Gasps echoed from the surrounding tables. Rossi sputtered, looking down at his ruined shirt in utter disbelief.
“Oops,” I said, my voice dripping with innocent sweetness. “My hand slipped. Must be all the vulgarity in the air making things greasy.”
Rossi’s face turned a violent shade of purple. He raised his hand, his fingers curling into a fist, ready to strike.
He didn't get the chance.
In a blur of motion, Dawson’s hand shot out, grabbing Rossi’s wrist with a grip so tight bone sounded like it was about to crack. Dawson twisted the arm backward, forcing Rossi down onto one knee with a sickening crunch of cartilage.
“You never raise your hand in her direction, Rossi,” Dawson whispered, his voice carrying across the entire silent ballroom with the chilling clarity of a death sentence. “Not in my city. Not in my presence.”
Vittorio watched from the head table, sipping his scotch, a slow, approving smile touching his lips.
Dawson released Rossi, who scrambled backward like a crab, clutching his broken pride and bruised wrist, before fleeing into the crowd.
Dawson turned back to me, his chest heaving, his dark eyes burning with fierce, possessive fury.
“You didn't have to throw the champagne,” Dawson muttered, though a proud smirk played at the corner of his mouth.
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“I had it handled,” I replied, adjusting my emerald dress.
“Clearly,” Dawson said, offering me his arm. “Come on. Let’s go show my father we can actually behave for ten consecutive minutes.”
