Kidnapping the Assassin: The Mafia Don’s Fatal Mistake

The Armor of a Donna

Chapter 7

[Elara]

An hour later, a terrified, trembling tailor arrived at the warehouse.

He was an older man who owed the Rossi family his life, and he brought with him a garment bag, a velvet jewelry box, and enough tactical gear to outfit a small strike team. He took one look at Cassian’s stitched shoulder, then one look at my cold, expressionless face, and decided not to ask any questions.

He left the items on the metal desk and practically sprinted back to his car.

"Get dressed," Cassian ordered, tossing the heavy garment bag onto the cot beside me. He was already shrugging into a fresh, perfectly tailored black suit, hiding the bulky bandages on his shoulder beneath expensive Italian wool.

I unzipped the bag.

It wasn't a traditional, fluffy white wedding dress. It was a weapon.

A floor-length gown made of heavy, shimmering ivory silk. It had a plunging neckline, a daring slit up the left thigh, and was designed to cling to every curve like a second skin. It was the kind of dress a woman wore when she wanted all eyes on her and wanted the men looking at her to forget how to breathe.

I slipped behind the medical screen, stripped off the oversized tactical shirt, and pulled the silk over my head.

It fit perfectly.

I reached for my weapons. A custom Kydex thigh holster went around my right leg, high enough to be hidden by the silk but easily accessible through the slit. I slid a compact 9mm into it. I strapped a sleek, ceramic throwing knife to my left ankle.

When I stepped out from behind the screen, Cassian was loading a spare magazine into his Beretta.

He looked up.

The Don of the Rossi Syndicate stopped moving. His hands froze on his weapon. His dark, obsidian eyes tracked slowly from the hem of the ivory silk, up the long slit exposing my thigh, up to the plunging neckline, and finally to my face.

The air in the warehouse suddenly felt ten degrees hotter.

Cassian swallowed hard. The muscle in his jaw ticked. For the first time since I met him, the terrifying Mafia Don looked completely, helplessly undone.

"Is there a problem, Rossi?" I asked, my voice entirely too raspy.

He cleared his throat, setting his gun down. "Turn around."

I frowned but obeyed, turning my back to him. I heard his heavy footsteps approach. The heat of his body radiated against my bare back, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine.

"Your hair," he murmured.

His large, calloused hands gathered my dark hair, sweeping it off my neck. His knuckles brushed against my sensitive skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He pulled a diamond clasp from his pocket and pinned my hair up in a severe, elegant twist.

Then, he reached around me.

My breath hitched as his arms encircled my waist. He held an intricate, breathtakingly beautiful diamond and ruby necklace. He fastened the clasp at the nape of my neck, but he didn't pull away.

His thumbs rested on my collarbones. He leaned in, his lips hovering mere millimeters from my ear.

"This was my mother's," Cassian whispered, his voice dark and rough. "It marks you as the Donna of the syndicate. When we walk through those doors, you are no longer the Viper. You are Elara Rossi."

I looked at our reflection in the dark, unlit monitor on the desk.

We looked like a nightmare dressed in haute couture. The ruthless king and his lethal queen.

"They won't believe it," I breathed, trying to ignore the way my heart hammered against his forearms. "I'm a killer, Cassian. I don't know how to look like a woman in love."

Cassian turned me around so I was facing him. He cupped my jaw, his thumb tracing my lower lip. The touch was agonizingly tender, completely contrasting the violence we were about to walk into.

"You don't have to look like you're in love with me," he said softly, his dark eyes burning into mine. "You just have to look like you belong to me. And let me do the rest."

He pulled a heavy, vintage gold ring from his pocket. The Rossi family crest. He took my left hand and slid the cold metal onto my ring finger.

It felt like a shackle. It felt like a promise.

"Ready, wife?" he asked, offering me his arm.

I looked at the ring, then up at the man who was either my salvation or my executioner. I slipped my arm through his.

"Let's go ruin a coronation, husband."