"Translate It!” The Mafia Boss Mocked Her—Seconds Later, He Froze In Shock

At five o’clock on Wednesday afternoon, three black garment bags bearing the gold crest of Valentino arrived at the Carlyle suite, accompanied by a stylist who spent the next ninety minutes transforming the girl who used to hide behind thrifted gray blazers.

When Elena walked out into the living room at seven-thirty, even her father had to wipe a tear from behind his spectacles.

The floor-length gown was cut from liquid crimson silk that hugged the curves of her waist and hips before cascading to the floor, leaving her shoulders and the upper slope of her back bare. Her chestnut hair was swept up into a loose, romantic twist pinned with diamond hairpins, and around her throat rested a delicate platinum and ruby necklace that had been tucked inside the velvet box alongside the dress.

At seven-forty-five, the private elevator chimed, and Lucian stepped into the foyer.

He wore a bespoke midnight-black tuxedo with satin lapels, looking so devastatingly handsome that Elena’s breath caught in her throat halfway across the parquet floor.

When Lucian looked up and saw her in the crimson silk, he stopped dead.

For five full seconds, the master of Bellini Global didn't move, didn't speak, and didn't blink. His dark gray eyes traveled slowly from the diamond pins in her hair down the column of her throat, over the crimson silk clinging to her waist, and back up to her flushed face.

"If you look like that in my boardroom on Monday morning," Lucian said, his voice a low, rough gravel that sent a shiver straight down her spine, "we’re going to bankrupt the company before lunch."

A warm laugh escaped Elena’s lips as she stepped up to him. "You picked the dress, Lucian."

"I picked the color," he murmured, taking her hand and pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the inside of her wrist, right over her racing pulse. "You did the rest."

Thirty minutes later, when they walked through the gilded entrance of the Grand Ballroom at the Pierre Hotel, the effect was instantaneous.

Half of Manhattan’s shipping elite, three city councilmen, and the heads of the four other New York syndicates paused mid-conversation. Whispers rippled across the room like wind through dry grass. Everyone knew Lucian Bellini had crushed Count Sabatini’s Milanese takeover the day before—and now, instead of arriving flanked by lawyers and bodyguards in a defensive crouch, he walked in with a breathtaking mystery woman in crimson silk on his arm, looking like an emperor who owned the city.

Wait—standing near the ice sculpture at the center of the room, holding a champagne flute and staring at Elena as if she had just seen a ghost rise from the dead, was Brenda, the thirty-second-floor office manager, who was attending as part of the corporate hospitality committee.

As Lucian guided Elena past the table, he paused for two seconds without letting go of Elena’s bare waist.

"Good evening, Brenda," Lucian said smoothly. "The champagne trays by the east door look a little low. Make sure they stay full."

"Y-yes, Mr. Bellini! Right away!" Brenda squeaked, turning scarlet and practically sprinting toward the kitchen while Elena bit the inside of her lip to hide a smile.

Lucian led Elena out onto the polished marble dance floor as the orchestra struck up a slow tango-inflected waltz. As his large right hand settled warm and possessive against the bare skin of her back, pulling her flush against the hard line of his tuxedo, every person around them faded into a blur.

"Relax your shoulders," Lucian whispered against her temple. "You’re dancing like you’re waiting for a quiz on Clause 22."

"Everyone in this room is staring at us," Elena whispered back, her left hand resting on his broad shoulder. "Especially the woman in the emerald dress by the bar who looks like she wants to poison my soup."

Lucian glanced briefly toward the bar, his jaw tightening by a fraction of an inch. "That’s Victoria Sterling. Her father chairs the Senate Maritime Subcommittee, and her mother spent the last year trying to arrange a merger between our families."

"Was she your girlfriend?" Elena asked before she could stop herself—and immediately wished she could swallow the words back.

Lucian looked down into her hazel eyes, a slow, devastating heat smoldering in his gaze as he spun her effortlessly through a turn and pulled her even closer against his chest.

"I don't have a girlfriend, Elena," Lucian murmured against her ear. "And after yesterday, the only woman in this city who has my attention is currently standing on my feet."

"I did not step on your feet!" she protested softly, her heart fluttering wildly as his lips brushed her cheekbone.

Then, over Lucian’s shoulder, Elena’s eyes caught movement near the orchestra stage.

Four men in dark, European-cut tuxedos had just stepped out of the service corridor behind the musicians—and the oldest of them, a man with a silver goatee and a jagged scar across his throat, was speaking in rapid, silent Neapolitan lip-movements to a waiter holding a silver tray!