Chapter 4 - The Glass Slipper
The air in the private dressing room adjacent to the study smelled of French lavender and expensive Italian wool.
Mrs. Gable, Gabriel’s personal house manager, entered without knocking, carrying a towering garment bag and a pair of satin slippers.
She was a woman in her late fifties, with sharp features and eyes that had seen decades of crime lords come and go.
She did not ask Clare why she was sitting in her underwear with a bandaged heel.
"Stand up, child," the older woman commanded softly, unzipping the heavy black canvas bag.
Inside hung a breathtaking emerald green evening gown made of heavy Italian silk.
It possessed long, tailored sleeves, an open back, and a modest, elegant neckline framed with subtle velvet trim.
"It belonged to no one," Mrs. Gable answered before Clare could ask. "The Master keeps a wardrobe prepared for unexpected guests of high standing."
Clare stood up gingerly, gritting her teeth as her bandaged foot touched the soft wool carpet.
With Mrs. Gable’s brisk assistance, the cheap catering shirt and polyester slacks were discarded into a trash bin.
The silk slid over Clare’s skin like cool liquid.
It fitted her slender frame almost unnervingly well, cinching at her narrow waist before cascading down to her ankles, hiding the bandages completely.
Mrs. Gable pulled Clare down onto a vanity chair and attacked her hair with silver pins and a boar-bristle brush.
Within five minutes, the damp, tangled mess was swept into an intricate, regal chignon at the nape of her neck.
A damp cloth wiped away the smeared mascara, replaced by a light dusting of translucent powder and a bold swipe of deep berry lipstick.
Clare looked into the gilded mirror.
She barely recognized the woman staring back.
The hollow, haunted waitress was buried beneath layers of aristocratic luxury.
Only her eyes remained the same—large, brown, and terrified.
The door connected to the study clicked open.
Gabriel stepped into the dressing room.
He had removed his suit jacket, now wearing only his fitted black vest, crisp white dress shirt with sleeves rolled to the forearms, and trousers that cost more than Clare’s annual rent.
His gaze swept over her from head to foot.
His expression did not change, but his eyes darkened slightly as they lingered on the curve of her throat.
He walked over to the velvet display tray resting on the vanity.
From it, he lifted a heavy platinum necklace encrusted with square-cut emeralds and diamonds.
He stepped behind Clare.
His hands were warm as his knuckles brushed the bare skin of her nape, sending an involuntary shiver straight down her spine.
"Do not flinch when I touch you downstairs," Gabriel whispered near her ear, his breath warm against her cold skin. "Sullivan smells fear faster than he smells blood."
The heavy platinum settled against her collarbone, cold and heavy as a gilded chain.
Gabriel fastened the clasp with a clean snap.
"What is my name to you?" Clare asked, her eyes meeting his in the mirror.
"Clare Montgomery," Gabriel replied, inventing a pedigree on the spot. "The orphaned daughter of a private shipping magnate from Savannah. We met in Monte Carlo three months ago. You dislike public attention, which is why nobody in this city has seen your face until tonight."
"They won't believe it," Clare said, her throat tightening. "I have calluses on my fingers from scrubbing grease traps."
Gabriel took her right hand into his own, lifting it to the light.
His thumb traced the rough skin of her palm.
"In my world, Clare, people believe whatever I tell them to believe," he murmured, his voice laced with absolute authority. "Because the alternative is being buried in the New Jersey wetlands."
He reached into his pocket and produced a platinum ring set with a flawless five-carat cushion-cut diamond.
He slid it onto the third finger of her left hand.
The stone caught the chandelier light, throwing dazzling prisms of blue and fire against the walls.
"Your sister is already in the ambulance," Gabriel said softly, checking his Rolex. "Thomas just confirmed the transport. The pediatric team is waiting at the doors."
A wave of relief so violent it made her knees buckle swept through Clare.
She caught herself against the edge of the mahogany vanity.
"Thank you," she breathed, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
"Save your gratitude," Gabriel said coldly, offering her his left arm. "You haven't seen what you have to survive tonight yet."
Clare took a deep, steadying breath.
She lifted her chin, squared her trembling shoulders, and placed her small, scarred hand inside the crook of the mafia boss's arm.
They walked out into the corridor together.
The muffled sounds of the grand ballroom below began to rise like the roar of an approaching ocean.
Every step Clare took was agonizing, the bandage pressing hard against her raw flesh.
Yet she did not limp.
She forced her chin high and matched Gabriel’s long, predatory stride.
They reached the top of the sweeping double staircase.
Down below, nearly three hundred of the city’s most dangerous, corrupt, and powerful figures were raising glasses under crystal chandeliers.
Suddenly, Sullivan’s loud, obnoxious voice boomed from the center floor, demanding another toast to the birthday host who had vanished.
Gabriel paused at the top of the grand marble landing.
He did not shout.
He merely rested his hand over Clare’s fingers on his arm.
The movement drew the eyes of a nearby senator.
Then a city judge looked up.
May you like
Within five seconds, a wave of stunned silence rippled across the crowded ballroom, spreading from the marble pillars to the jazz stage until the entire room stood utterly frozen.
All eyes locked onto the ruthless Don of New York, and the unknown, breathtaking woman wrapped in silk and emeralds standing by his side.
