Laughter followed me down the aisle before the wedding march had even faded away. Someone had deliberately sliced open the wedding dress I had sewn with my own hands, my fiancé stood there and watched me be humiliated in front of hundreds of guests, and the only man who finally came to my rescue was Manhattan's most notorious Mafia boss. Then he asked one quiet question that turned the entire cathedral into a graveyard of silence.

The heavy bronze doors of St. Patrick’s Cathedral slammed shut behind us, cutting off the noise of the ruined wedding like a blade cutting thread.

Outside, the cool Manhattan rain was beginning to fall. A fleet of sleek, black armored sedans stood waiting at the curb, engine idle, security detail standing at attention in the downpour. One of the drivers instantly opened the rear door of the lead vehicle.

Dante guided me into the leather interior with gentle precision, shielding my head from the rain with his arm. He slid in beside me, and before I could even process what had just happened, the car smoothly pulled away into the bustling grid of New York City traffic.

I sat huddled in the corner, clutching Dante’s suit coat around my bare chest. My mind was a chaotic storm of shock, heartbreak, and adrenaline.

"Drink this," Dante’s voice broke the silence.

He handed me a crystal glass filled with a small splash of amber liquor. My hands shook so badly that the liquid splashed against the sides, but I forced myself to take a sip. The burn down my throat grounded me immediately.

"Thank you," I whispered, my voice cracked. "For... for the jacket. For stopping it."

"You don't need to thank me for basic human decency," Dante said, staring out the rain-streaked window. "Though decency is a rare commodity among the Whitmores."

I looked at his sharp profile—the defined jawline, the subtle scar running along his collarbone, the absolute air of supreme power he carried without effort.

"Why were you even there?" I asked quietly. "The Whitmores boasted for months that they invited Manhattan's grandest figure, but... you don't belong in their circle."

Dante turned to face me. "I was there because I buy talent, Clara. And I have been watching your work for six months."

I blinked in astonishment. "My work?"

"You think I came to watch Nathan Whitmore get married?" Dante gave a short, bitter chuckle. "I came because I knew you designed every gown in that bridal party. I saw the embroidery on the mother-of-the-bride's coat three months ago at a gala. I asked who made it. They told me an unnamed apprentice was working out of a small basement apartment in Brooklyn."

He leaned closer, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my heart hammer against my ribs.

"You have the hands of a master, Clara. The Whitmores were using you as cheap labor and a trophy to show off how 'charitable' they were to a working-class girl. I came today to offer you a contract with my luxury fashion house. I didn't expect to have to rescue you from a pit of snakes first."

Before I could answer, his phone buzzed on the leather seat between us.

The screen illuminated with Nathan Whitmore's caller ID.

Dante picked it up, pressed speakerphone, and laid it back down.

"Moretti!" Nathan’s furious voice exploded through the car speakers. "Where the hell are you taking my bride?! Do you have any idea what you've done to my family's reputation?! My mother is hysterical! The press is outside!"

Dante didn't even blink. He leaned down slightly toward the phone.

"Listen to me very carefully, Nathan," Dante said, his tone dropping to sub-zero temperature. "If you or anyone in your pathetic family attempts to contact Clara again, I will personally pull every loan my banks hold on Whitmore Enterprises. By tomorrow morning, you won't be worrying about your reputation. You'll be worrying about bankruptcy."