Page 35 of Married to the Ruthless Mafia Heir

The Lombardi estate dwarfed the Moretti manor. Lights blazed everywhere. The fountain in the courtyard gleamed silver in the darkness. Guests clustered in groups, champagne glasses catching amber light.

When Dante and I entered the ballroom, eyes turned our way. Many of these people had been at our wedding. They knew what happened that day.

Panic seized me. What if he left me standing there again? What if I was humiliated all over again?

Dante felt me stiffen. His hand covered mine where it rested on his arm, a gentle pat. "Just stay with me."

I forced a smile, took a deep breath, and lifted my chin.

The evening went smoothly. When Dante talked business with family representatives, I stood beside him—smiling, nodding, raising my glass at the right moments. Eventually some business partners pulled him away, and I drifted to the buffet area, nursing a glass of champagne.

"Your dress is really something special."

A male voice beside me. I turned to find a man in a charcoal suit standing a few feet away, whiskey in hand, studying my dress with careful attention—not looking at me, but at what I'd made.

"The tailoring's sharp. The waistline's perfect. And the fabric choice is spot-on." He stepped closer, eyes bright. "Did you have it made in New York?"

He didn't seem threatening, so I smiled. "I made it myself."

He blinked. Then a surprised smile crossed his face. "You made this?"

He looked at the dress again, more seriously this time. "This waistline technique—it's unusual. Not standard commercial cut. Where did you study design?"

Embarrassment crept in. I'd never taken a single formal class. "Nowhere, really. Just picked it up."

The man seemed to see right through me. He gave an apologetic smile and extended his hand. "Luca Lombardi. Nice to meet you."

I shook it lightly. "Elena Moretti."

"Moretti? Now I know who you are." He smiled, releasing my hand. "Your dress says a lot. You didn't wear some big-name designer's piece to this party—you wore something you made. Either you don't understand high society rules, or you don't care."

He paused. "I'm guessing it's the latter."

I didn't answer. Truth was, I wasn't trying to make a statement—I genuinely didn't know there were rules about this. And Dante knew but said nothing. Did he not care either?

"New York's full of independent designers these days," Luca said casually, leaning against the buffet table. "But most don't really understand fabric and tailoring. They outsource to factories, slap on a label, call it independent design. But that's not what you did. I can tell from your stitching."

He started talking fabrics—Italian wool blends, Japanese washed linen, silk from small workshops in southern France. Most of the materials and techniques he mentioned were completely new to me.

This was the first time since coming to New York that I'd met someone who truly understood design and was willing to talk about it. But we didn't talk long. A tall figure appeared, stepping between me and Luca.

Dante.

He didn't look at me. He watched Luca like a prowling lion, while his hand naturally curved around my waist—not heavy, but possessive. Unmistakable.

"Mr. Lombardi." His tone was polite but cold. "You seem to be enjoying my wife's company."

Luca raised his glass with a knowing smile. "Your wife has impressive design talent. You should bring her out more. Encourage her to keep creating. New York's design scene needs fresh talent."

He nodded to me, gave a playful wink, and walked away.

Dante didn't respond. He looked down at me, eyes traveling from my face to my dress and back to my eyes. "I never knew you could make clothes."

"I don't think I'm that talented, so I don't really mention it." I smiled apologetically. Dante studied me with interest, his gaze making my face heat up. I grabbed for the nearest glass. "Want a drink?"

Dante took the glass from my hand and set it aside. Then his palm pressed against my lower back, pulling me close. He bent his head, breath warm against my ear. "Forgot what happened last time you drank? Trying that trick again?"

He always brought up uncomfortable memories. I glared at him.