Chapter 1 - The Glass Shield and the Red DressThe crystal chandeliers of the Russo estate cast a blinding, incandescent glare over hundreds of Chicago’s most dangerous elites, but the light felt entirely hollow to me. Standing beside Enzo, wrapped in the crimson silk dress he had hand-selected, I felt less like a flesh-and-blood woman and more like a carefully positioned trophy. For three years, that had been my entire existence.
Yet, tonight was different. From the moment Enzo’s hand had clamped around my wrist in our grand foyer—his fingers burning with a sudden, possessive heat that contradicted his icy demeanor—the air between us had shifted. He hadn't left my side since we crossed the threshold of the Russo ballroom. His broad shoulder pressed against mine, his dark, calculating gaze constantly sweeping the room like a radar, watching every shadow, every politician, every syndicate capo who dared look our way.
"You're gripping my arm too tightly," I murmured, keeping my fixed smile plastered on for the benefit of a passing senator and his wife.
Enzo didn't loosen his grip. If anything, his muscles grew harder, corded beneath his bespoke charcoal suit. "Smile, Ava," he murmured back, his baritone voice a low, gravelly vibration that only I could hear. "And don't look at anyone who isn't looking at us."
"Why are you so tense?" I challenged, my frustration finally bubbling past the polite barrier I had maintained for years. "You own this room, Enzo. Everyone here either works for you, owes you money, or is terrified of you. What could possibly—"
I stopped.
A sudden hush seemed to ripple through the orchestra of ambient chatter near the grand staircase. The heavy mahogany doors at the front of the ballroom swung open, and the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
Marco Russo Jr. had arrived.
He was the only son of Salvatore Russo, Enzo’s deadliest rival—a man who had spent the last five years exiled in Europe following a brutal turf war that had nearly burned Chicago to the ground. Marco didn't look like a mobster from the old guard. He wore a midnight-blue velvet jacket, his dark hair swept back, a predatory, shark-like grin plastered across his face. He possessed a reckless, arrogant charm that drew eyes instantly.
But it wasn't the room he was looking at.
Marco’s stride faltered for a fraction of a second as his eyes locked onto me. A slow, dangerous light crept into his gaze, stripping away the polite facade of a homecoming party. He began walking straight toward us, parting the sea of terrified socialites like a wolf moving through a flock of sheep.
Enzo stepped half an inch forward, placing his body squarely between Marco and me, but it was too late. The younger Russo had already arrived, stopping just inches away. His eyes dipped deliberately down the crimson curves of my dress before snapping back to my face.
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Marco didn't even bother looking at Enzo. He addressed the crime king of Chicago with a mocking, honeyed drawl.
"Enzo. It’s been a long time. You’ve outdone yourself with the acquisitions," Marco said, his gaze lingering shamelessly on me. Then, raising his voice just enough for the surrounding capos to hear, he dropped the bomb that would shatter three years of cold, calculated neglect. "In fact... I want your wife."
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