Chapter 2 - The Weight of a Ring
The second my palm met Matteo Salvano’s, the ambient noise of the Ashwick Grand ballroom seemed to tilt on its axis. His hand was warm, calloused at the base of the fingers, and possessed an iron-clad stability that made my own trembling hand feel completely transparent. He didn't pull me aggressively; instead, he simply closed the remaining distance between us with a fluid, measured step, wrapping his free hand securely around my waist.
For a pediatric nurse who spent her days dodging rogue medical carts, managing frantic parents, and lifting fifty-pound oxygen tanks, I knew what physical strength felt like. But Matteo’s strength wasn't the functional muscle of a worker; it was the coiled, suppressed power of a predator who rarely had to remind anyone he was dangerous.
"Breathe, Maren," he murmured near my temple, his low baritone vibrating straight down my spine. "You look like you're stepping onto a firing squad, not a dance floor."
"This is a firing squad," I muttered back, keeping my eyes fixed firmly on the expensive lapel of his tailored obsidian tuxedo. "My mother is currently having a stroke at Table Three, my ex-fiancé looks like he's about to swallow his tongue, and your fiancée—or whatever she is—is staring at me with murder in her eyes."
"Let them look," Matteo replied smoothly, guiding me into a wide, effortless spin that effortlessly placed my back toward Connor and Paige. "It gives them something to do besides meddle in our lives."
As we drifted into the center of the floor, surrounded by couples swaying lazily to the string quartet, the reality of what I had just agreed to began to settle in. My department-store dress, which had felt merely adequate an hour ago, suddenly felt starkly out of place against Matteo’s bespoke silk attire. Yet, as he held me close enough that the scent of cedarwood and faint, clean rain washed over me, I realized something strange: he wasn't looking down at my clothes. His dark gray eyes were fixed entirely on my face, watching the micro-expressions of shock and residual hurt still lingering from Connor's parting shots.
"He's an idiot," Matteo said quietly.
I blinked, momentarily startled. "Excuse me?"
"Your ex," he clarified, his gaze flicking briefly over my shoulder toward the perimeter of the room. "Any man who walks away from a woman like you—while you're carrying his child—doesn't just lack vision. He lacks a brain."
"You don't know anything about us."
"I know that he's wearing a twenty-thousand-dollar suit paid for by a family that views him as an investment, while you're wearing shoes that have been resoled twice and worrying about whether you can afford nursery school tuition next fall," Matteo said, his voice terrifyingly matter-of-fact. "I also know that when he spoke to you ten minutes ago, your pulse spiked to one hundred and twenty beats per minute, and you didn't cry. You just took it."
I stopped mid-step, my feet tangling momentarily against his trousers. "Are you profiling me?"
"I'm observant." A faint, dry smirk touched the corner of his mouth, softening the harsh line of his jaw. "It's an occupational hazard."
"Right. The mafia boss routine." I tried to inject a note of cynicism into my voice, but it fell flat, swallowed by the sheer absurdity of the fact that I was currently waltzing with a notorious Chicago underworld figure to spite my cheating ex. "Should I be worried you're going to pull out a silenced pistol and shoot my uncle during the bouquet toss?"
"Only if he steps on your toes," Matteo replied without missing a beat.
Across the room, the woman who had been glaring at us—an immaculately groomed blonde draped in emeralds—had begun marching purposefully toward our section of the dance floor. Behind her, trailing like a distressed golden retriever, was my mother, her expression a mix of absolute horror and desperate curiosity.
Matteo saw them coming before I did. Without asking permission, his arm tightened around my waist, and he pulled me flush against his chest, dipping me low enough that the chandeliers overhead spun in a dizzying arc of crystal light.
When he brought me back up, his face was inches from mine. His breath brushed my lips.
"Smile, Mrs. Salvano," he whispered against my mouth. "Showtime."
The blonde woman stopped dead in her tracks three feet away, her emerald necklace rising and falling with her sharp, indignant breaths. My mother, arriving a half-second later, clutched her pearls so hard I thought the string would snap.
"Matteo!" the blonde snapped, her voice carrying a brittle, aristocratic edge. "What on earth is the meaning of this? Who is this?"
Matteo didn't release his hold on my waist. He turned his head just enough to acknowledge them, his expression dropping into a mask of chilling, polite indifference.
"Evelyn," Matteo said smoothly, addressing the blonde. "May I present my wife, Maren. Maren, this is Evelyn Vance, a business associate of my uncle's."
Evelyn’s face drained of color. "Your... your what?"
"Wife," Matteo repeated, his tone leaving zero room for argument. "We had a quiet ceremony downtown this morning. I apologize for the abruptness, but as you know, I prefer to keep my private life strictly private."
My mother pushed her way past Evelyn, her eyes bulging as she stared from Matteo’s terrifyingly expensive tuxedo to my flushed, bewildered face. "Maren? What is he talking about? You didn't get married this morning! You came here alone! I asked you three times during cocktail hour!"
"Mother," I said, finding a sudden, bizarre reservoir of calm deep inside my chest—perhaps fueled by the sheer, unadulterated shock of the moment. "Matteo and I didn't want a circus. We eloped."
"Eloped?!" My mother’s voice pitched upward, drawing the attention of half the tables near the dance floor, including Connor and Paige, who had stopped dancing to stare. "To a stranger you met—when?! You’ve been sitting by yourself all night!"
"We met six months ago, actually," Matteo corrected smoothly, his thumb tracing a slow, hypnotic circle against the small of my back through the silk of my dress. "At a pediatric clinic downtown. Maren was treating my godson. It was... love at first sight."
I had to bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper to keep from bursting out laughing. A pediatric clinic? A godson? He was making this up on the spot with the terrifying proficiency of a man who spent his life lying to federal agents and rival syndicates.
Evelyn glared at me as if I were a cockroach that had somehow crawled onto her designer gown. "You're wearing an off-the-rack department-store dress. He doesn't even have a ring on your finger."
I opened my mouth to scramble for an excuse, acutely aware of the bare skin of my left hand.
Before I could speak, Matteo reached into his vest pocket. With a slow, deliberate motion, he pulled out a heavy platinum band embedded with an oval-cut diamond that caught the amber light of the ballroom and threw it across the walls like a strobe. It looked like it belonged in a museum vault, not the pocket of a man standing in a hotel ballroom.
Without a word, he took my left hand, slid the ring onto my ring finger, and pressed a warm, lingering kiss to my knuckles.
"We haven't had time to announce it properly," Matteo murmured, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my knees feel entirely boneless. "My apologies, darling. I should have bought you a proper diamond before dragging you into this zoo."
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My mother looked like she was about to faint. Evelyn turned on her heel and stormed away, her designer shoes clicking furiously against the parquet floor.
And across the room, Connor Wade stood frozen beside his pregnant wife, staring at the massive rock on my hand with a look of pure, unadulterated disbelief.
