Chapter 4 - THE TRAP CLOSES
Two nights later, the rain returned to Manhattan, washing the city streets in slick, neon-lit reflections. I stood in front of the full-length mirror in the master suite, staring at the woman looking back at me. Dressed in a sleek, emerald-green silk dress that contrasted sharply with the pale skin of my face, I looked entirely different from the shattered, bleeding girl who had run through the freezing night.
Antonio had spared no expense. Every bruise on my face had been skillfully concealed by a professional makeup artist he brought in under heavy guard, and my hair had been styled into loose, elegant waves that cascaded over my shoulders. I looked composed. Dangerous, even.
"You look like a queen going to claim her throne," a deep voice rumbled from the doorway.
I turned to see Antonio leaning against the doorframe, dressed in a bespoke midnight-blue tuxedo that fit his broad shoulders to absolute perfection. His gaze swept over me, a spark of pure, unfiltered appreciation burning in his eyes.
"I feel more like an actress in a play I didn't audition for," I admitted, smoothing down the front of the dress.
"Every great victory requires a stage," Antonio replied, walking across the room to stand beside me. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. Opening it, he revealed a breathtaking diamond necklace, the stones catching the warm light of the chandelier. "Consider this your armor for tonight."
"Antonio, I can't accept this," I protested, taking a step back. "It must cost a fortune."
"Everything I own is worth a fortune, Nora, and very little of it brings me any real satisfaction," he said smoothly, lifting the necklace from the box. "Allow me."
He stepped closer, the masculine scent of cedarwood and expensive bourbon enveloping me. As his fingers brushed the sensitive skin of my neck while fastening the clasp, my heart raced. When he finished, his hands lingered on my shoulders for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before he stepped back, offering me his arm.
"Are you ready to face him?" Antonio asked, his voice hardening into steel.
I took a deep, steadying breath, feeling the diamond weight resting against my collarbone like a physical anchor of confidence. "I've been ready for two years."
Ten minutes later, we stepped out of a private elevator into an exclusive, dimly lit lounge on the upper east side—a neutral territory chosen specifically because Caleb Sterling frequented it on Friday nights to project the image of a successful, carefree bachelor. The room was filled with the low murmur of jazz music, clinking crystal glasses, and wealthy elites laughing over overpriced drinks.
When Antonio Castellano walked into the room, the oxygen seemed to leave the space all at once. Conversations died mid-sentence. Heads whipped around. The sheer gravity of his presence commanded absolute silence. And walking right beside him, holding his arm with a posture of unyielding grace, was me.
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I spotted Caleb almost immediately. He was sitting at a corner booth with two corporate clients, holding a scotch in his hand, laughing loudly at his own joke. But as the whispers rolled through the room and he looked up to see what had silenced the crowd, the glass slipped from his fingers, shattering against the mahogany table.
His face drained of all color. His eyes bulged in absolute, unadulterated horror as he stared not just at me, alive and breathing, but at the terrifying mafia boss standing protectively by my side.
