Chapter 1 - The Art of Breaking Rules
The wind off Lake Michigan carried the scent of rotting leaves, wet granite, and the kind of wealth that did not announce itself with neon or glass towers. Lake Forest was built on silence. It was built on limestone walls tall enough to hide the sins of three generations, and iron gates forged before the Great War.
Sienna Blake stood in the cavernous ballroom of Villa Rosalia with a measuring tape looped over her shoulders, her dark curls pinned up with two carpenter’s pencils, and a clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield.
“He doesn’t drink champagne,” Adrien Cross said from the doorway. His voice was smooth, cultured, carrying that crisp British cadence that made even grocery lists sound like diplomatic treaties. He tapped a leather-bound ledger against his thigh. “If you put Moët at his private table, Miss Blake, he will assume you didn’t read the briefing. If you put Dom Pérignon, he will assume you are trying too hard to impress him. He drinks sparkling water from San Pellegrino Terme. Bottled in glass. Unflavored. Cold, but never over ice.”
Sienna didn’t turn around immediately. She knelt on the parquet floor, pressing the brass edge of the tape against the baseboard near the south terrace doors. “And what does he do if someone hands him a glass of tap water, Adrien? Does he turn them into a pillar of salt?”
“He stops looking at them,” Adrien replied, stepping into the room. His Italian leather oxfords didn't make a sound against the oak. “Which, in Chicago, is generally considered far worse.”
Sienna stood, smoothing down the front of her charcoal pencil skirt. It was an old skirt, bought four years ago when Blake & Bloom Events had been a dream shared between two ambitious twenty-somethings in a drafty loft in Pilsen. It hugged her hips tightly—perhaps a little too tightly now, after months of stress-eating cheap grocery-store bagels while watching her bank balance dwindle to three digits—but she refused to apologize for taking up space. Not anymore.
“Good thing I don’t care about being looked at,” she said, writing a number down on her grid paper. “I care about sightlines, catering exits, and making sure three hundred masked millionaires don’t bottleneck at the coat check when the clock strikes midnight.”
“A pragmatist,” Adrien noted, a polite, practiced smile gracing his thin lips. At forty-four, Adrien looked like the sort of man who spent his vacations fox hunting in Surrey or laundering bearer bonds in Zurich. His blond-gray hair was parted with surgical precision. “A rare trait in this house. Most people who enter Villa Rosalia are poets or scoundrels. Both are tedious.”
“Which one is Roman Duca?”
Adrien’s smile thinned, becoming something cooler, more guarded. “Mr. Duca is the man who pays the bills, Miss Blake. And the man who ensures this city doesn’t tear itself to pieces under the weight of its own greed. Speak of him with a lower pitch. The plaster in this ballroom was imported from Venice in 1922; it carries sound straight up to the master suite.”
Sienna glanced toward the ceiling, where a massive fresco depicted the fall of the rebel angels. At the center of the gilded molding hung a crystal chandelier that looked heavy enough to crush an armored truck.
Three days had passed since her first meeting with Roman Duca. Three days since he had looked at her like she was an unwanted stray who had wandered onto his immaculate lawn, only for her to tell him to his face that his antique lantern was in the wrong place and under the wrong light.
She hadn't seen him since.
Yet his presence sat over the house like a low-pressure system before a storm. She felt him in the quiet efficiency of the staff, who moved through the corridors with the terrified reverence of monks in a monastery run by an unforgiving abbot. She felt him in Enzo Varga, the hulking head of security who shadowed her every move, leaning against marble pillars with an unlit cigar between his teeth, watching her unpack boxes of velvet runners and silver votives.
“He reviewed your layout,” Adrien said, breaking into her thoughts.
Sienna froze, her pencil hovering over the paper. “And?”
“He approved the relocation of the Santa Rosalia lantern to the central alcove. He also agreed to lower the gallery illumination by twelve lumens, as you suggested.” Adrien stepped closer, tilting his head. “You have a strange effect on him, Sienna. Usually, when an outsider tells Roman he is making an error, they find their contracts canceled before they reach the gate.”
“I wasn’t trying to be clever,” Sienna said, keeping her tone flat. “My grandfather restored church relics on Taylor Street for forty years. Old silver enamel is like eggshell. You put a five-hundred-watt halogen lamp three feet from eighteenth-century blue glaze, and the heat expands the metal beneath the glass. Within six months, the saint’s face cracks in half. You don't need to be an art critic to know that. You just have to pay attention.”
“Salvatore Blake,” Adrien murmured. “Yes. We checked his records, of course. A good man. An honest artisan. Died with sixteen hundred dollars in his checking account and a shop full of unpaid invoices.” Adrien’s eyes flicked over her, sharp as razors behind his warm demeanor. “Honesty is a dreadful business model, my dear. One would think you learned that from Grant Holloway.”
The name hit Sienna like a splash of ice water. Her stomach knotted, but she didn't drop her gaze. She kept her chin high, locking eyes with the Englishman until he gave a tiny, conceding nod.
“Don't bring Grant into my workspace, Adrien,” she said, her voice dropping into a register that surprised even herself. “Grant stole a client list. He stole three vendor contracts and a ring that was paid for with my grandmother’s inheritance. That doesn’t make him a businessman. That makes him a pickpocket in a Brioni suit. If you want to compare him to Mr. Duca, be my guest, but I doubt your boss would appreciate the company.”
A low rumble of laughter came from the shadows of the arched colonnade.
Sienna turned so fast her heel squeaked against the floorboards.
Roman Duca stood between two marble pillars. He was dressed in a dark wool sweater with the sleeves pushed up over thick forearms corded with veins, charcoal slacks, and no shoes—only heavy black socks that explained why he had moved without a whisper of sound. In his right hand, he held a porcelain mug. The silver at his temples caught the afternoon light slanting through the high terrace windows.
He was fifty-three years old, and he carried his age not like an apology, but like a weapon he had spent five decades sharpening.
“A pickpocket in a Brioni suit,” Roman said, his voice deep, gravelly, vibrating through the quiet ballroom. He took a sip from his mug, his gray eyes fixed entirely on Sienna. “Cruel, Miss Blake. Accurate, but cruel.”
Adrien stepped back instantly, bowing his head slightly. “Mr. Duca. We were just finalizing the floral staging for the west loggia.”
“Leave us, Adrien,” Roman said without looking at him.
Adrien hesitated for a fraction of a heartbeat. It was so quick anyone else might have missed it, but Sienna saw the micro-tightening of Adrien’s jaw before he smoothed it away behind his deferential mask. “Of course, sir. The caterer’s updated manifest is on your desk.”
Adrien turned and walked out, his footsteps fading down the long hallway until the heavy oak doors clicked shut.
Silence dropped over the room. It was thick, heavy with the scent of Roman’s espresso and the faint trace of cedar and gun oil that seemed to cling to his skin.
Roman didn’t move toward her. He stayed by the pillar, leaning his broad shoulder against the stone, studying her with an intensity that made Sienna’s pulse trip over itself. He didn't look at her the way men in bars looked at her—calculating her curves, wondering if she was easy because she didn't fit into a size zero dress. Nor did he look at her the way Grant had during the final year of their relationship—with mild pity mixed with professional resentment.
Roman looked at her as if she were a complicated lock he hadn’t decided whether to pick or blow open with dynamite.
“You’re behind schedule on the drapery,” Roman said quietly.
Sienna swallowed hard, forcing her shoulders back. “The velvet from the warehouse in New Jersey was dyed in the wrong dye lot. It had too much violet in the black. Under your ballroom’s amber sconces, it would have looked like an overgrown eggplant. I sent it back.”
“That cost you eight hundred dollars in rush shipping fees.”
“It cost *me* eight hundred dollars,” she emphasized, stepping forward so she wasn't cowering across forty feet of empty floor. “It comes out of my forty-thousand-dollar fee, Mr. Duca. Not your budget. When I deliver an event, it looks like an empire, not a discount strip club. If you wanted eggplant curtains, you should have hired an amateur.”
Roman’s mouth moved. Just a millimeter. The ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of lips that rarely smiled.
“You have a sharp tongue for a woman whose landlord is waiting by her mailbox with an eviction warrant.”
“You hired me to plan your gala, Mr. Duca, not to be your pet,” she shot back, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. “If my tongue offends you, write me a check for the work I’ve done so far and call another planner. But you won’t find one who can coordinate three hundred high-society vultures, seven city inspectors, and four tons of floral arrangements in six days. Not even in Chicago.”
Roman set his mug down on a small marble pedestal beside him. He pushed away from the pillar and began walking toward her.
He was tall—not towering, perhaps six-foot-one—but he occupied space the way a mountain occupied a horizon. Every step was deliberate, balanced, the walk of a man who had survived knife fights in alleys before he ever sat in boardrooms.
He stopped three feet from her. The height difference was enough that she had to tilt her chin to hold his gaze. Up close, she could see the fine lines around his eyes, the tiny white scar slicing vertically through his left eyebrow, and the slight, crooked bridge of his nose where an old fracture had healed without a surgeon’s vanity.
“Why didn't you sue Holloway?” Roman asked. The question was quiet, devoid of the mockery she anticipated.
Sienna blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
“He took your client book. He took the deposit for the Drake Hotel wedding you spent four months structuring. Under Illinois partnership law, you had grounds for an injunction within forty-eight hours of his announcement.” Roman tilted his head. “Why did you walk away and let him starve you out?”
Sienna looked down at the clipboard in her hands, her fingers tightening around the metal clip until her knuckles turned white. The memory tasted like copper in her mouth.
“Because going to court requires money I didn't have,” she whispered, then caught herself, lifting her eyes again to meet his steel-gray gaze. “And because if a man wants to walk out of your life and take the silverware with him, you let him. You don't beg a thief to stay in your house. You just build a better house with stronger locks.”
Roman watched her. For five long seconds, the only sound was the wind rattling the heavy glass panes of the terrace doors.
Then, slowly, Roman reached out.
Sienna’s breath caught in her throat. She expected him to take the clipboard, or perhaps point at something on her floor plan. Instead, his large, calloused fingers brushed against the stray curl that had escaped her hairpins, tucking it gently behind her ear.
His touch was warm. Shockingly gentle for hands that were rumored to have broken jaws in the basement of the Cook County courthouse. His thumb grazed the soft line of her jawline, lingering for just half a second before falling away.
“Stronger locks,” Roman repeated softly. “I can appreciate that philosophy.”
He turned and looked toward the central alcove where the Lantern of Santa Rosalia now stood, safe behind museum-grade tempered glass and illuminated by cool, indirect fiber optics.
“My mother brought that lantern from a chapel outside Corleone in 1968,” Roman said, his tone shifting into something distant, shadowed. “She carried it on her lap on the boat to New York. She told me that Santa Rosalia protects the forgotten. The people who fall between the cracks of great cities. That is why the proceeds go to the cardiac ward at St. Brendan’s. The children there are forgotten by everyone except their mothers and the machines keeping them alive.”
Sienna looked from the lantern to Roman’s profile. The hard line of his jaw seemed etched in granite, but the tension in his shoulders was palpable.
“It’s a beautiful purpose, Roman,” she said, using his first name without realizing it.
He looked back at her. The air between them suddenly felt charged, dense with an electric pull that had nothing to do with contracts or event logistics.
“Make sure the security perimeter is thirty feet around that alcove on Halloween night,” he said, his voice returning to its normal, commanding rumble. “There are people in this city who would burn Villa Rosalia to the ground just to see me sift through the ashes.”
“Enzo has sixteen men assigned to the perimeter,” Sienna assured him. “And I’ve routed the catering staff through the east gallery to avoid any foot traffic near the pedestal.”
“Good.” Roman reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a heavy brass key attached to a black ribbon. He held it out to her.
“What is this?”
“The master key to the private wine cellar and the terrace galleries,” Roman said. “If something goes wrong during the gala—if an inspector tries to hold up my kitchen or an uninvited guest makes a scene—you don't wait for Adrien. You don't look for Enzo. You handle it yourself. You have my authority.”
Sienna took the key. The metal was warm from his pocket. “Adrien has been managing these events for six years. Won't he be offended?”
Roman looked at her with an unreadable expression. “Adrien is an employee, Sienna. You are the architect of this night. Don't let anyone make you feel small in my house. Least of all the people I pay to open doors.”
Before she could answer, his phone buzzed against his hip. He pulled out an encrypted black device, glanced at the display, and his jaw hardened instantly into stone.
“Get your rest tonight, Miss Blake,” he said, already turning toward the double doors. “Tomorrow, the wolves arrive.”
***
Two days later, the wolves arrived early, and one of them wore a custom-tailored navy suit from Savile Row.
Sienna was in the grand foyer, overseeing the installation of a twelve-foot floral arch made of black calla lilies, dark burgundy roses, and twisted iron branches, when the front door swung open.
The Lake Forest drizzle drifted inside, followed by Grant Holloway.
He looked exactly as he had eight months ago: perfectly styled golden hair, a jawline that belonged in an insurance commercial, and an effortless smile that concealed the moral compass of a sewer rat. Beside him stood a woman Sienna recognized immediately—Clarissa Van Der Bilt, the daughter of a private equity titan whose wedding Sienna had spent four months designing before Grant poached the contract.
“Sienna!” Grant’s voice boomed through the marble foyer, dripping with performative warmth. “My god, look at you! I heard a rumor through the floral guild that Duca hired a cut-rate coordinator, but I told Clarissa, ‘No, that can't be Sienna. She wouldn't take a high-risk gig like this after what happened to her credit.’”
Sienna froze. The florist she had been directing—a sweet young woman named Mia from Logan Square—looked between them with wide, panicked eyes.
Sienna slowly set down her clipboard. The fury that flared in her chest was so intense it felt cold, like liquid nitrogen in her veins.
“You’re trespassing, Grant,” Sienna said, her voice completely even. “Villa Rosalia is closed to the public until eight o’clock tomorrow evening. Even then, admission is by invitation and five-thousand-dollar charity pledge only.”
Grant chuckled, stepping onto the black-and-white marble floor, ignoring the damp footprints his shoes left behind. Clarissa clung to his arm, looking around the grand entrance with an expression of mild distaste.
“Clarissa’s father sits on the board of St. Brendan’s,” Grant said smoothly, stepping close enough that Sienna could smell his expensive bergamot cologne. “We were invited for an early private viewing of the auction catalog by your very own Adrien Cross. We bumped into him in the city yesterday.” Grant leaned down slightly, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Honestly, Sienna, you look exhausted. Look at your skin. And that dress... didn't you wear that to the Palmer House gala two years ago? I told you back then, sweetheart, dark colors don't hide the hips. They just draw attention to the effort.”
Clarissa let out a sharp, delicate laugh behind her manicured hand.
Sienna felt the blood rushing to her ears. The old instinct—the poisonous conditioning she had endured for three years—screamed at her to shrink, to look at the floor, to make an excuse and hide in the service corridor until the humiliation passed.
Then a heavy hand came down on Grant Holloway’s shoulder.
It didn't drop lightly. It struck with the weight of an iron girder, driving Grant’s knees down two inches before he caught himself with a sharp gasp.
“You’re standing on my floor,” a voice said.
Roman Duca had appeared from the shadows of the gallery. He wasn't wearing his casual sweater today. He wore a midnight-blue three-piece suit that made his broad shoulders look impossible, his silver hair combed back, his dark eyes fixed on Grant’s face with the terrifying dispassion of a butcher evaluating a pig.
Grant tried to pull away, but Roman’s fingers tightened into the meat of his shoulder, digging past the tailored wool straight into the clavicle. Grant’s face drained of color.
“M-Mr. Duca,” Grant stammered, his polished charm vanishing in a heartbeat. “I’m Grant Holloway. Holloway Luxury Events. We met at the Union League Club last winter—”
“You’re standing on my floor,” Roman repeated, his voice never rising above a conversational hum. “With muddy shoes. Insulting my director of events.”
Clarissa took a step back, her eyes wide with sudden terror. “Mr. Duca, we were invited by Adrien—”
Roman didn't even look at her. His gaze remained locked on Grant, whose knees were beginning to tremble under the downward pressure of Roman’s grip.
“Miss Blake is not an employee you can lecture,” Roman murmured, stepping into Grant’s personal space until their noses were six inches apart. “She holds the master key to this estate. Which means that if she tells you that you are trespassing, you are currently committing a felony on private property. And in Lake Forest, Mr. Holloway, uninvited men who linger on my grounds have a habit of disappearing into the lake before the sheriff can file a report.”
“I... I apologize,” Grant choked out, sweat breaking along his hairline. “We were just... we were leaving.”
Roman released him with a slight shove that sent Grant stumbling back against the heavy carved front doors.
“If I see your face at the gala tomorrow night without Miss Blake’s written permission,” Roman said softly, “I will buy your firm’s commercial debt from the bank on LaSalle Street before noon on Monday. And by Tuesday morning, you will be selling used sedans in Rockford. Do you understand me?”
Grant swallowed, clutching his bruised shoulder. He didn't look at Sienna. He couldn't even look at Clarissa. He simply shoved the heavy oak door open and stumbled out into the Lake Forest rain, Clarissa scurrying after him like a frightened bird.
The heavy door slammed shut.
The foyer was dead silent. Mia the florist looked as if she were about to faint against a crate of black roses.
Roman turned slowly toward Sienna. The cold lethality in his eyes didn't vanish instantly, but as his gaze rested on her face, the tension around his mouth softened.
“Eggplant curtains,” Roman said casually, straightening his cuffs. “Bad shoes. Terrible taste in men, Miss Blake.”
Sienna’s heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She looked at the man who had just dismantled her worst nightmare in forty seconds without ever raising his voice.
“I was handling it,” she whispered, though her voice lacked conviction.
Roman stepped closer to her, his gray eyes searching hers. “I know you were. But in my house, you don't fight scavengers alone. Get back to work, Sienna. Tomorrow night, we show this city what happens when they bet against you.”
May you like
He turned and walked toward his study, leaving Sienna standing in the center of the grand foyer, her heart racing not from fear, but from a heat that threatened to consume every boundary she had ever built.
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