Chapter 2 - The Rules of the CageThe morning sun cast long, fractured shadows across the east garden, but inside the master parlor of Hart House, the light felt heavy and artificial.
When Dominic had said we were getting married, I assumed it would be a quiet, cold arrangement behind closed doors—a secret paperwork transaction designed to consolidate his control over Boston’s shipping lanes while keeping me locked away as a silent ornament.
I was catastrophically wrong.
By eight o’clock in the morning, a small army of tailors, makeup artists, and event planners had descended upon the estate like a swarm of locusts. They didn't come from local Boston boutiques; they flew in directly from New York, carrying garment bags stamped with high-fashion houses I had only ever seen in glossy magazines.
I sat rigidly in front of a gilded antique mirror in the master dressing room while an elderly woman with silver hair and a measuring tape draped around her neck pinned layers of heavy silk and French lace against my chest.
“Stand up straight, child,” the woman muttered in a sharp European accent. “Mr. Vale gave explicit instructions. The fitting must be flawless. If the hem is off by a millimeter, his men will throw my entire team into the harbor.”
She wasn't even joking. Down in the courtyard, two of Dominic’s men in sharp black suits stood motionless beside a pair of matte-black SUVs, watching the gates like statues carved from granite.
The door swung open without a knock.
Dominic stepped into the room. He wore a crisp white dress shirt with the top two buttons undone, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms to reveal the lean, powerful muscles beneath. He didn't look like a mob boss preparing for a hostile corporate takeover; he looked like a man inspecting his most valuable acquisition.
The tailors immediately dropped their heads, stepping back into the shadows with terrified reverence.
Dominic walked slowly toward the vanity, his dark eyes meeting mine in the mirror. He stopped right behind my chair, resting his hands lightly on the carved wooden backrest, looming over me like a protective, possessive shadow.
“Does it fit?” he asked, his voice low and rich.
“It’s suffocating,” I answered honestly, refusing to soften my tone. “Just like the rest of this arrangement.”
A faint, dry smirk touched the corner of Dominic’s mouth. He reached out, his long fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from my neck, sending a sudden shiver down my spine.
“Get out,” Dominic said quietly, never breaking eye contact with me in the mirror.
The tailors didn't need to be told twice. Within five seconds, the room emptied, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind them, leaving the two of us alone in the cavernous dressing room.
Dominic leaned down, resting his chin near my shoulder so his lips were dangerously close to my ear.
“You think you’re a prisoner here, Evelyn?” he murmured, the warmth of his breath brushing against my skin.
“My brother traded me to Malcolm Pryce, and you bought me like a piece of cargo on the black market,” I whispered fiercely, turning my head to glare up at him. “What else am I supposed to call this? A romance?”
Dominic’s expression darkened, the amusement vanishing from his eyes, replaced by a sudden, intense gravity. He reached out, his hand cupping my cheek with surprising gentleness, his thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone.
“Malcolm Pryce wanted a trophy to decorate his estate and humiliate your family,” Dominic said, his voice dropping into a fierce, low register. “I am offering you something entirely different. Power. Protection. A seat at the head of the table where nobody will ever dare look down on a Hart again.”
“And what’s the price?” I demanded, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Nothing in your world is free.”
“The price,” Dominic said, his dark eyes locking onto mine with hypnotic intensity, “is your absolute trust. In public, you are my queen. In private, you are my equal. But you never, ever run from me.”
Before I could formulate a reply, a sharp knock echoed at the door, shattering the heavy tension in the room.
“Boss,” a gruff voice called out from the hallway—Marcus, Dominic’s primary enforcer. “We have a problem down at the South Boston docks. Pryce’s associates are trying to intercept the midnight cargo containers. They think because the marriage papers aren't fully stamped by the city clerk yet, they can still squeeze us.”
Dominic’s jaw tightened. A muscle twitched in his cheek. The dark, ruthless mafia boss I had heard whispers about for years suddenly surfaced beneath the polished surface of the fiancé.
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He didn't look at Marcus. He kept his eyes locked on mine, his hand slowly sliding away from my face.
“Finish the fitting,” Dominic instructed coldly, turning toward the door. He paused with his hand on the brass knob, looking back over his shoulder. “And pick out a dress for tonight, Evelyn. You’re coming with me to the South Boston warehouse. It’s time you learned how real business is conducted in my family.”
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