Chapter 8: Armor of a Different Kind
The invitation arrived in a heavy, cream-colored envelope embossed with the Mayor’s golden seal. The annual Boston Winter Gala was the city's most prestigious charity event, an unavoidable collision of old money, political heavyweights, and the quiet, dangerous power brokers who funded them.
Dante tossed the envelope onto the mahogany dining table next to Aria’s morning coffee.
"The Mayor’s gala is this Saturday," he announced, taking a seat opposite her. "Arthur Sterling will be there. His polling numbers took a hit after Julian’s... accident, so he will be using this event to project strength and stability."
Aria stared at the elegant cursive on the envelope, her stomach twisting into a familiar, anxious knot. "Are we required to go?"
"As the newly merged power in this city, our absence would speak louder than our presence. The press is already whispering about rumors of a rift between the Rossis and the Sterlings," Dante explained evenly. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "However, if you are not ready to face him, we don't go. I will handle the political fallout. You don't have to put yourself in a room with that man if you don't want to."
Aria traced the edge of the envelope with her index finger. A month ago, the thought of facing her father would have sent her into a paralyzing panic attack. She would have hid in her room, locked the door, and prayed to be forgotten. But a month of peace, a month of Dante’s quiet encouragement, and the bruising sessions in the basement gym had changed something fundamental inside her.
"No," she said softly, her chin lifting as she met Dante’s gaze. "We're going. If we hide, it proves he still has power over me. I want him to see that he doesn't."
Dante’s eyes gleamed with a deep, unspoken pride. "Then we go. But we do it on our terms."
The next afternoon, a team of private tailors arrived at the estate. They were escorted to the master suite, armed with measuring tapes, silk swatches, and velvet garment bags. Dante had given them one strict instruction: She chooses.
In the past, Aria’s wardrobe had been meticulously curated by her mother to project innocence and purity—high necklines, modest cuts, and heavy fabrics that doubled as concealers for Julian’s bruises. Her wedding dress had been the ultimate manifestation of that prison.
But as she stood before the three-way mirror in her suite, she looked at the dresses the tailors had brought. They were bold, elegant, and uncompromising.
She pointed to a striking, floor-length gown in deep, midnight-blue velvet. It was sleek and minimalist, with a sweeping train, but the most radical feature was the back. It plunged dramatically, leaving her shoulders and the entire length of her spine completely bare.
The head tailor looked slightly concerned. "Mrs. Rossi, it is a stunning piece, but it is quite... exposed. Given the winter weather..."
"It’s perfect," Aria interrupted, her voice firm.
May you like
She turned sideways, looking at her reflection. Her skin was flawless. The sickly green bruises along her collarbone had completely vanished. The fractures were healed. There was nothing left to hide, and she was done dressing as if she had secrets to bury. This dress wasn't armor to deflect blows; it was a weapon designed to show the world she was entirely unbroken.
"Fit it," she instructed the tailor. "And tell my husband I’ll be ready at eight on Saturday."
