Chapter 3 - The Weight of the Ring
The silence in the Hotel Belvedere shattered instantly as Mave placed her small, calloused hand into Leo Rossi’s palm.
Gasps, murmurs, and the sharp clatter of a champagne glass hitting the marble floor erupted behind them. Arthur Sullivan looked as though he might collapse into the ice sculpture, his eyes bulging as he watched the most dangerous man in the city bypass his prized, college-educated, debutante-trained eldest daughter to pull the warehouse grunt out of the corner.
Caroline’s face drained of all color, her manicured nails biting so deeply into her own palms that she broke the skin.
“What is he doing?” Caroline whispered to nobody in particular, her voice shaking with hysterical disbelief. “That’s Mave. She smells like fertilizer and damp cardboard. She doesn’t even own a proper coat!”
Leo didn't care about the whispers. He closed his thick fingers around Mave’s hand, his grip firm, warm, and entirely unyielding. He didn't shake her hand; he claimed it.
“Can you walk in those?” Rossi asked, glancing down at her cheap, tight pumps.
“Barely,” Mave muttered honestly, her heart still hammering against her ribs.
Without another word, Leo slid his free arm around her waist, catching her right beneath the rigid, agonizing boning of her corset. A jolt of electric heat shot through Mave’s spine. Despite her exhaustion and the physical pain of the cheap dress, she leaned into his support simply because her knees felt like water.
He turned her away from the column, guiding her directly toward the grand mahogany double doors at the top of the staircase.
“Leo!”
Arthur Sullivan’s desperate voice broke through the murmurs. The older man scurried across the parquet floor like a crab, his tuxedo jacket flapping open, sweat pouring down his temples.
“Mr. Rossi—pardon me—Leo, my dear boy. I see you’ve met my youngest, Mave. She’s... well, she’s unconventional, a bit of a shy bird compared to Caroline, who has spent years preparing for high-society life—look at Caroline over here, she’s wearing imported velvet—”
Leo stopped. He didn't turn around completely; he merely angled his head back over his shoulder, fixing Arthur Sullivan with a look so glacial that the older man froze mid-sentence, his jaw hanging open.
“Arthur,” Leo said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. “Your debts to the eastern shipping union come due on Tuesday.”
Arthur paled further, clutching at his chest. “Yes... yes, I know, we’ve arranged the extension—”
“The extension is canceled,” Leo interrupted calmly. “Furthermore, your credit lines with the Rossi-backed banks are closed as of midnight.”
“Canceled? Closed? But Leo—!” Arthur sputtered, his eyes wide with absolute terror. “How am I supposed to settle the accounts? How do I keep the estate afloat?”
Leo shifted his gaze slightly, letting his dark eyes sweep over Caroline, who was now trembling with rage and humiliation near the ice sculpture, before returning to Arthur.
“That,” Leo said with absolute indifference, “sounds like a problem for a man with two capable daughters. Good evening, Arthur.”
Without waiting for a reply, Leo turned and led Mave through the double doors, stepping out of the suffocating heat of the ballroom and into the cool, quiet marble foyer of the hotel.
The heavy oak doors clicked shut behind them, cutting off the frantic buzzing of the elite like a guillotine dropping.
Mave stood in the center of the quiet foyer, breathing heavily. Her chest hurt from the corset, her feet throbbed in the tight pumps, and her mind was spinning through a labyrinth of incomprehensible logic.
“You just ruined my father financially,” Mave said, looking up at Rossi. There was no fear in her voice—only profound bewilderment.
“Your father gambled away your mother’s inheritance, mortgaged your future before you were eighteen, and treats you like a draft animal to fund your sister’s vanity,” Leo replied calmly, reaching into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a black leather cigarette case, tapped out a single cigarette, but didn't light it. He just held it between his fingers. “He was already ruined. I merely stopped pretending otherwise.”
Mave rubbed her aching wrists. “Why me, Mr. Rossi? Let’s be honest. You didn't walk across that room because of my winning personality or my three-year-old shoes.”
Leo stopped rolling the unlit cigarette between his fingers. He looked down at her, his expression sharpening, the tired edges of his face hardening into something ancient and absolute.
“Because three weeks ago, my intelligence network intercepted a dossier detailing a coordinated effort by the eastern syndicates to poison my supply lines from the inside,” Leo said quietly. “Every major family in this city submitted profiles of their children, their heirs, their assets. Your father submitted Caroline as a potential spy disguised as a bride.”
Mave blinked. “Caroline?”
“Your sister has been meeting with my primary rival, Victor Moretti, behind closed doors for two months,” Leo continued, his voice dropping an octave. “She offered to trade access to my estate codes in exchange for a seat at the table when I fall.”
Mave stared at him, the pieces clicking together with cold clarity. “And you needed someone inside the Sullivan house. Someone they ignore. Someone they think is a stain on the upholstery.”
“I needed someone who sees everything because nobody bothers to hide anything around her,” Leo corrected, stepping closer until she could feel the heat radiating off his chest. He reached out and, with surprising gentleness, used his thumb to brush away the tiny drop of dried blood on Mave’s thumb. “And as it turns out... I also wanted a wife who knows what a hard day’s work looks like.”
May you like
Mave’s breath hitched. “A wife?”
“Not a request, Mave,” Leo said, his dark eyes locking onto hers with terrifying, absolute finality. “A proposal. We leave through this side exit, my car is waiting, and by tomorrow morning, the entire city will know whose ring is on your finger.”
