Chapter 3 - The Offer at the River
The black armored Bentley pulled up to the private iron gates of the Valenti estate along the Chicago River at 1:00 AM.
Clara stepped out into the courtyard, escorted by four men in tailored dark suits who carried automatic sidearms beneath their coats with comfortable ease.
She walked into the library—a massive room filled with floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves, a roaring stone fireplace, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the misty river below.
Lorenzo Valenti stood by the fireplace.
He was tall—at least six-foot-three—with broad shoulders that filled out his charcoal suit jacket. His dark hair was brushed back, his jaw sharp and dusted with dark stubble, and his eyes were a striking, piercing amber that seemed to cut right through the darkness of the room.
He didn't look at Clara with pity. He didn't look at her with condescension.
His amber eyes swept over her body—her soft curves, her broad shoulders, her dark hair pinned back hastily, her confident posture—with an intensity that made Clara’s breath catch in her throat.
"Clara," Lorenzo said, walking toward her with slow, deliberate steps. "You've grown even more magnificent than the last time I saw you."
Clara blinked, caught off guard. "Dominic called me 'too big for his life' four hours ago."
Lorenzo stopped two feet away from her. He reached out, his warm, leather-gloved fingers gently taking her chin, tilting her face up toward his.
"Dominic Rossi is a boy who plays with paper boats," Lorenzo murmured, his voice like velvet over gravel. "He lacks the appetite for a real woman. A small man always fears a woman who takes up space in the world."
Clara felt a sudden heat rise in her cheeks, her heart hammering against her ribs. For three years, Dominic had made her feel like she needed to apologize for her size, her appetite, her presence.
Lorenzo looked at her as if she were a queen standing before his altar.
"Why are you here, Clara?" Lorenzo asked softly, releasing her chin.
"My uncle and the Rossi family are meeting at ten tomorrow morning to sign an emergency clause stripping me of my voting power," Clara said, pulling a flash drive from her coat pocket. "They are going to claim I am emotionally unstable due to the cancelled wedding. I need a partner who can override my uncle's board and crush the Rossi shipping blockade before noon."
Lorenzo walked over to his desk, poured two glasses of aged scotch, and handed one to her.
"I don't do business partnerships, Clara," Lorenzo said softly.
Clara’s heart sank. "Lorenzo... I thought—"
"I do marriages," Lorenzo interrupted, leaning against the edge of his desk, his amber eyes burning into hers.
Clara froze, her glass halfway to her lips. "What?"
"You want protection. You want revenge. You want total control of your family's empire without your uncle's interference," Lorenzo said, stepping closer until his chest almost brushed her shoulder. "Marry me, Clara. Not next month. Not next week. Tomorrow morning at nine o'clock."
May you like
"A fake marriage?" Clara breathed.
Lorenzo leaned down, his breath warm against her ear. "There will be nothing fake about it, my sweet Clara. You will be the Don’s wife. You will sit at the head of my table, command my lieutenants, and wear my ring. And Dominic Rossi will spend the rest of his short life watching you reign over everything he ever wanted."
