The dress was a deep, blood-red backless and slit up to the thigh. It was designed to make people look, but the diamond collar around my neck was designed to make them understand.
I stood in the foyer of the penthouse, waiting. Kyle emerged from his room, looking lethal in a midnight-blue tuxedo. He didn't compliment me. He didn't even smile. He walked over and stood so close I could feel the heat radiating from his chest.
"Tonight, you are the future Mrs. Vanguard," he said, his voice a low, arrogant command. He reached out, his hand sliding around my waist, his thumb hooking into the dip of my spine. He pulled me flush against him, his touch firm and possessive. "You don't speak unless I prompt you. You don't wander. And you most certainly do not 'play' the guests for their watches."
"And if I do?" I tilted my head back, my lips inches from his jaw. "Will you lock me in the basement, or will you just bring Elena back to finish the job?"
Kyle's grip tightened, his fingers bruising my hip. "Don't test me tonight, Val. Moretti's blood is still fresh on the warehouse floor, and the police are looking for a reason to link me to that explosion. You are my shield. Act like it."
"I'm a shield with a loud mouth, Kyle. You should have remembered that before you bought the dress."
He let out a sharp, dark exhale and led me to the elevator.
The gala was held at a private villa on the outskirts of Milan. The air was thick with the scent of lilies and old money. As we walked in, the room went silent. Every eye followed the "Lion of Milan" and the mysterious woman on his arm.
Kyle played the part of the arrogant fiancé perfectly. He kept his hand on the small of my back or draped heavily over my shoulder, marking me in front of the city's elite. He talked business, he laughed at jokes that weren't funny, and he treated me like a prized orchid he had just plucked from a secret garden.
But the physical touch wasn't for show. Every time a man looked at me for too long, Kyle's hand would slide higher, his palm resting against the bare skin of my back, his touch a silent, burning claim. It wasn't love—it was territory.
"You're shaking," he whispered against my ear as we stood near the champagne fountain. He didn't pull away; he leaned in closer, his breath hot against my neck.
"I'm not shaking, I'm vibrating with the urge to punch you," I hissed back, though my heart was doing a frantic dance against my ribs.
"Lie better, Val. Your pulse is thudding against my palm." He shifted his hand, his fingers splaying across my ribs, dangerously close to my breast. The intimacy was public and suffocating. "You like being watched. You like that they know you're mine."
"I like that they know you're a delusional narcissist," I snapped.
Before he could retort, a waiter approached us with a silver tray. He didn't offer champagne. He held out a single, small envelope with my name written in calligraphy that made my stomach drop.
Kyle snatched it before I could reach for it. He ripped it open, his face turning into a mask of pure, icy rage.
Inside was no note. Only a small, charred piece of red velvet the exact fabric of the dress I was wearing and a single, dried rose petal from Rome.
"He's here," I whispered, the color draining from my face.
Kyle didn't panic. He wrapped his arm around my shoulders, pulling me so tight against his side I could feel the hard line of the gun tucked into his waistband. He looked around the room, his eyes scanning the crowd like a predator.
"He's not just here," Kyle rasped, his voice dropping to a terrifying, quiet edge. "He's watching us right now. He sent this to let me know he knows exactly what you're wearing under this dress."
"Kyle, we have to leave," I said, my stubbornness finally giving way to the cold realization that Moretti wasn't a ghost anymore.
"No," Kyle said, his arrogance returning with a vengeance. He turned me to face him, his hands gripping my upper arms, his eyes burning into mine. "We don't run. We're Vanguards. We stay, we dance, and we let him watch. I want him to see exactly what he can never have again."
He dragged me toward the dance floor. He didn't ask. He pulled me into his arms, one hand locking behind my waist, the other gripping my hand so hard our bones clicked. As the music started, he spun me into the center of the room, his body a wall of muscle and silk between me and the shadows.
It was the most beautiful, violent dance of my life. And as we turned, I saw a flash of silver in the gallery above—the barrel of a rifle aimed directly at the diamond collar on my neck.