Chapter 4 - The Lion's Den
At nine o'clock the following morning, Hannah’s quiet world ceased to exist.
She was sitting in her cramped, windowless office in the basement of the North Harbor Community Center, surrounded by filing cabinets with sticking drawers and the faint, familiar scent of floor wax and old basketball leather, when the knock came.
It wasn't a tentative knock. It was the heavy, rhythmic tap of an authority that didn't expect to be kept waiting.
Hannah stood up, smoothing down her navy blue pencil skirt, and opened the door.
Standing in the narrow hallway, framed by peeling yellow paint, were two women in tailored black suits, flanked by Marcus Reed. Behind them, two young men in white delivery uniforms held three massive garment bags encased in matte-black protective covers.
“Miss Bennett,” Marcus said, dipping his head in a brief, respectful nod. “Mr. DeLuca sends his regards. And these.”
Hannah stood frozen in the doorway. “Marcus, I told him yesterday I wasn't playing dress-up.”
“Mr. DeLuca doesn't play games, ma’am,” Marcus said calmly, gesturing for the two women to step forward. “This is Madame Laurent and her senior tailor from Michigan Avenue. They have four hours to ensure you are ready for this evening.”
“I have a job,” Hannah protested, pointing toward the mountains of paperwork stacked on her laminate desk. “I have payroll to submit by noon, and the after-school snack delivery needs to be checked in—”
“Eli Turner is upstairs,” Marcus interrupted smoothly.
Hannah stopped. “Eli?”
“Mr. DeLuca arranged for Bellamy’s Grill to cater lunch and dinner for the children’s program today,” Marcus said, a tiny hint of amusement flickering in his gray eyes. “Eli volunteered to handle the delivery and distribution. In fact, he insisted. He told me that if Miss Bennett was busy ‘taking care of business,’ the least he could do was make sure the kids had turkey clubs.”
Hannah felt a strange, tight knot form in her chest. She pressed her hand to her throat. Roman was doing this deliberately—weaving his resources around her life, not with brute force, but with an infuriating, suffocating thoroughness that anticipated every objection she could possibly raise.
Madame Laurent, a severe Frenchwoman with silver-streaked hair cut into a razor-sharp bob, stepped into the small office, her eyes sweeping over Hannah’s figure with a professional, calculating gaze.
“The proportions,” Madame Laurent announced, clicking her tongue softly. “Magnificent. Real hips. A real waist. Not like these starved socialite sticks who make my silk look like curtains on a broomstick.”
“Excuse me?” Hannah blinked.
“Do not apologize for having a body, chérie,” the older woman commanded, snapping her fingers at the delivery boys. “Hang them on the rack! Quickly, quickly, we have no time. The silk jersey requires steam, and the emerald velvet must be fitted to the millimeter.”
Before Hannah could utter another word of protest, her small office was transformed into a whirlwind of measuring tapes, pins, and rich fabric.
For three hours, Hannah was poked, smoothed, zipped, and styled. She had never worn clothes like this in her life. The fabrics didn't pinch; they draped, clinging to her curves with an elegance that made her look not heavier, but statuesque. The final gown was a deep, midnight-emerald velvet, cut with an off-the-shoulder neckline that framed her collarbones and swept down to the floor in a long, unbroken line of rich, dark color. It cinched at her natural waist, celebrating her softness while giving her an undeniable, regal presence.
Madame Laurent pinned a single, exquisite pearl hairpin into Hannah’s dark curls, which had been swept up into a soft, cascading updo.
“Look,” Madame Laurent whispered, turning Hannah toward the full-length mirror they had brought in.
Hannah looked.
For a long moment, she didn't recognize the woman staring back at her. She didn't see the tired, overworked accountant who spent her evenings agonizing over utility bills. She saw a woman who looked formidable, luminous, and dangerous.
“Mr. DeLuca has good taste,” Madame Laurent murmured, packing her shears. “He specifically requested this color. He said it was the color of the sweater you were wearing when you called his men thieves.”
Hannah looked down, a strange shiver running through her.
At precisely seven o'clock, a black Maybach pulled up to the curb outside the center. Marcus opened the heavy glass doors of the building and escorted Hannah out into the brisk night air.
The rear door of the car opened, and Roman stepped out.
He wore a black tuxedo that fit his broad frame with absolute perfection, the silk lapels catching the glow of the streetlights. When his eyes found Hannah standing at the top of the concrete steps, he stopped.
The world around them—the honking traffic on Clark Street, the cold autumn wind whipping dead leaves across the sidewalk—seemed to fall away.
Roman walked up the steps slowly. His eyes traveled from the hem of the emerald gown, up the soft curves of her waist, to the exposed line of her throat, and finally to her dark, defiant eyes.
For the first time since she had met him, Roman DeLuca looked entirely stripped of his armor.
“Hannah,” he whispered. The single word sounded like an exhale.
“Don't get used to this,” she said, trying desperately to steady her fluttering pulse. “Tomorrow morning, I’m back in my gray cardigan.”
Roman didn't smile. He took her gloved hand, lifted it to his lips, and pressed a brief, burning kiss to the back of her knuckles.
May you like
“Tomorrow morning, the entire city will know who you are,” Roman said softly. “Let’s go show my cousin what happens when you steal from the wrong woman.”
***
