Chapter 3 - The Transformation
An hour later, Dominic’s private SUV had transported Clara back to her cramped, chaotic Brooklyn apartment above her shuttered shop.
The air inside was thick with the scent of steaming cotton, chalk dust, and old fabric. Racks of half-finished costumes, glittering sequins, and rolls of silk crowded the cozy space.
Dominic stood in the middle of her tiny living room, looking entirely out of place in his tailored Italian suit amid the sewing machines and spools of thread. His bodyguards stood outside the door, guarding the hallway like stone gargoyles.
"You expect to wear that to dinner?" Dominic asked, gesturing skeptically toward the emerald dress draped over her couch.
Clara spun around, holding a pair of heavy tailoring shears like a dagger. "What’s wrong with this dress? It’s silk jersey, it drapes like a dream, and it highlights my waist while forgiving my hips. It’s classic."
"It's civilian," Dominic corrected smoothly, stepping closer. "Romano’s wife—or whatever women he keeps in his orbit—wear haute couture dripping with diamonds. If you show up looking like a talented costume designer, they'll smell the lie in five minutes. You need to look like wealth that doesn't need to try."
Clara’s eyes flashed with defensive pride. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Moretti, did my lack of a multi-million-dollar Prada collection offend your delicate aesthetic sensibilities?"
Instead of getting angry, Dominic smirked. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a sleek black platinum card, tossing it onto her cluttered cutting table.
"There is a private showroom on Fifth Avenue that belongs to my family's accountant," Dominic said, his voice smooth and commanding. "They open at midnight for emergencies. We are going to build you an armor."
Clara stared at the black card, then up at him. "An armor?"
"You're walking into a room full of wolves, Clara," Dominic said quietly, stepping close enough that she could smell the subtle sandalwood and cedar of his cologne. "I'm not putting you in a dress. I'm putting you in a fortress."
Forty-five minutes later, parked outside the discreet, unmarked glass doors on Fifth Avenue, Clara realized he wasn't exaggerating.
The boutique manager—a terrifyingly chic woman with severe silver hair—gasped when she saw Dominic Moretti walk in, immediately bowing her head and ushering them into a private VIP salon lined with velvet curtains and racks of clothes that looked like they belonged in a museum.
"Dress her," Dominic commanded, sitting down in a velvet armchair and crossing his long legs. "Something that says she owns the room before she even speaks."
Clara was led into the fitting room by the manager, feeling like a doll in a high-stakes play. When she finally stepped out twenty minutes later, the reflection in the three-way mirror made even her breath catch.
It was a custom-tailored, midnight-blue velvet gown by a high-end Italian designer. The structured bodice hugged her curves with absolute perfection, smoothing and defining her figure with architectural precision, while the heavy, luxurious fabric fell in a dramatic, sweeping mermaid silhouette. A subtle, tasteful slit revealed just a hint of silver-strapped heels. It wasn't loud; it was commanding, elegant, and effortlessly powerful.
She stepped out into the salon.
Dominic stood up slowly. His slate-gray eyes swept over her from head to toe, lingering on the way the deep blue fabric caught the light. For the first time all evening, the fearless, unflappable mafia boss looked completely speechless.
"Well?" Clara asked, suddenly feeling self-conscious under his intense gaze. "Does it pass inspection, boss?"
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Dominic walked toward her, his footsteps silent on the thick carpet. He stopped just inches away, his gaze locking with hers in the mirror reflection.
"You don't look like a fake wife anymore," Dominic whispered, his voice dropping into a low, resonant register that sent a shiver straight down her spine. "You look dangerous."
