Chapter 4 - The Emerald Dress
The next evening, the service elevator didn't bring Nadia a cleaning cart. It brought Mrs. Torres, Rafael’s silver-haired household manager, carrying a long garment bag wrapped in heavy black plastic.
"Mr. Conti requests your presence in the private dining room at seven," Mrs. Torres said, her expression entirely neutral as she laid the bag across the guest bed.
Nadia stood in the center of the bedroom she had been assigned that morning—a room twice the size of her entire apartment in Astoria, with a massive window overlooking the frozen river.
"I'm a housekeeper," Nadia said, folding her arms across her chest. "Not arm candy."
Mrs. Torres’s mouth twitched, the closest thing to a smile the older woman had ever displayed. "Mr. Conti does not collect arm candy, child."
"No? What does he collect?"
"Loyalty," Mrs. Torres said simply. "And right now, he feels responsible for you. Which is a very dangerous thing for everyone involved."
Nadia laughed once—short, dry, and bitter. "Then he should try firing me."
"He won't do that," Mrs. Torres replied, turning toward the door. "He doesn't let go of things once he's decided they belong to him. Put the dress on. The car leaves in twenty minutes."
When Nadia finally unzipped the garment bag, she let out a slow, ragged breath.
Inside hung a floor-length gown of deep emerald silk that caught the light like a forest canopy at dusk. It was cut with a simple, devastating elegance, sleeveless with a high neckline that fell into a dramatic, fluid drape down the back. There were no tags, but the label stitched into the silk lining belonged to a designer on the Upper East Side whose pieces cost more than Nadia’s annual rent.
She put it on with shaking hands. When she stepped out of the private bath, her dark hair pinned up into a loose twist with a few stray curls framing her face, she looked like a stranger.
Rafael was waiting by the front foyer when she descended the curved marble staircase.
He wore a dark tuxedo with a midnight-blue silk lapel, his white shirt open at the throat, no tie. When he heard the soft whisper of silk against stone, he turned.
For the first time since she had met him, Rafael looked completely, unguardedly stunned.
"Nadia," he said.
Just her name. But he made it sound like an anchor dropping into deep water.
"I look like someone else," she said, her fingers nervously smoothing the fabric over her hip. "I feel like I'm wearing a disguise."
"No," his gaze moved slowly up from her silver-strapped heels to her eyes, with an intensity that made her chest tighten. "You look like someone everyone else was too blind to see."
Her heart betrayed her, hammering one hard, painful beat against her ribs.
She lifted her chin. "If I refuse to go to this gala tonight?"
"I carry you down to the car," he said without missing a beat.
"You're unbelievable."
"I've been called worse before breakfast."
The gala was held at the Metropolitan Museum of Art—a world Nadia had only ever experienced through the smeared glass of a school bus window or the glow of a late-night television. As Rafael’s town car pulled up to the grand stone steps, flashbulbs exploded across the night like a localized thunderstorm.
Rafael stepped out first, then turned and offered his hand.
Nadia looked at his hand—large, warm, calloused at the palm—and then placed her fingers in his. The moment their skin met, a jolt of static electricity ran up her arm.
They walked up the marble stairs together. Rafael moved through the crowd like a king entering a room full of people who owed him money. Every head turned. Every conversation dipped below the threshold of hearing as they passed.
A man in a slate-gray suit intercepted them near the entrance to the Egyptian wing. He had pale, watery eyes and a smile that felt like a razor blade pressed flat against skin.
"Rafael," the man purred, his voice oily and thin. "I heard you were coming, but I didn't expect you to bring a museum piece of your own."
Nadia stiffened, stepping half a step behind Rafael’s shoulder.
The man’s eyes flicked over her dress, then up to her face with an insulting, appraising hunger. "So this is the famous maid," he said. "Rafael Marchetti always did enjoy rescuing broken things."
Nadia’s blood ran cold. Marchetti. That wasn't Rafael’s public name. That was the old name—the name from the Brooklyn docks, the name his father had carried before the blood tax was paid.
"Excuse me," Nadia said, her voice hard. "I don't know you."
"But I know enough about you, sweetheart," the man replied, leaning in closer, smelling of gin and cheap mints. "Tell me—does he know what you really are?"
May you like
Rafael’s hand didn't shake. It didn't tremble. But his fingers, resting lightly on the small of Nadia’s back, suddenly clamped down with the crushing force of a vise.
"Petrov," Rafael said. Very softly. Like a man reading a death sentence off a menu. "Did I give you permission to speak to her?"
