Chapter 2 - What the Veil Concealed
The master suite of the Ramos estate was an imposing room of dark mahogany, slate gray linens, and massive glass windows looking out over the crashing waves of the Atlantic Ocean.
Diego stepped into the room, tossing his suit jacket onto a leather armchair. He poured himself two fingers of scotch from a crystal decanter on the sideboard, taking a slow sip before turning around.
I stood in the center of the plush oriental rug, drowning in five yards of ivory silk, lace, and pearls.
"Take off the dress," Diego ordered, his tone flat, businesslike, devoid of affection. "I want to see what thirty million dollars of debt buys a man."
He expected me to tremble. He expected tears, or perhaps a desperate attempt to bargain for time.
Instead, I reached behind my neck and found the top pearl button of the antique lace collar.
"The buttons run all the way down the spine, Diego," I said, my voice steady. "There are forty-two of them. If you want me out of it, you will either have to assist me or lend me a blade."
Diego set his scotch glass down on the mahogany table with a sharp clink. He walked toward me slowly, his heavy steps echoing off the hardwood floor. He stopped directly behind me. I could feel the heat radiating from his chest, smelling the faint scent of cedarwood, scotch, and rain on his skin.
"Do you think this is a game, Noelle?" he whispered near my ear. "You think because you act brave, I won't take what is mine?"
"I know you will take what you want," I replied softly, my eyes staring at our reflections in the dark windowpane. "I am simply offering you efficiency."
Diego muttered a curse under his breath and reached for the top button. His rough, calloused fingers worked deftly, unhooking the first pearl, then the second, then the third.
As he worked his way down my neck to my shoulder blades, the heavy ivory lace parted.
Diego’s hand suddenly froze at the eighth button.
I felt his breath catch against my skin.
"What is this?" he asked, his voice losing its harsh edge, replaced by a sudden, sharp stillness.
"Keep unbuttoning, Diego," I whispered. "You asked to see what my family gave you."
He didn't use his fingers anymore. With a swift movement, Diego pulled a small, razor-sharp pocket knife from his trousers and carefully sliced through the silk threads holding the remaining thirty-four buttons together.
The heavy, structured gown fell from my shoulders, pooling at my feet like melting ice.
Underneath the five-figure gown, there was no delicate silk lingerie. There was only a thin, white cotton slip—and skin that was barely skin at all.
Diego took an involuntary step back, a sharp intake of air escaping his lungs.
My back was a canvas of nightmares.
Across my shoulders ran thick, raised white keloid scars from leather straps. Below my left shoulder blade was a deep, circular indentation—a third-degree burn from a cigar lighter. Down my spine were narrow, jagged lines where bone had been broken and reset poorly, leaving long, pale tracks across my ribs.
"My God..." Diego breathed out, his voice barely audible above the sound of the ocean outside.
He reached out a hand, his calloused fingers trembling slightly as he hovered an inch away from the raised scar beneath my collarbone.
"Who did this to you?" he demanded, his voice suddenly dropping an octave, no longer filled with hatred for me, but with a terrifying, dark fury directed at the universe. "Was this my men? Did my soldiers do this during the warehouse raids?"
"Your men never touched me, Diego," I said, turning around slowly to face him.
The front of my body was no better. A faint, jagged scar ran across my collarbone where a silver signet ring had split my flesh years ago.
"This is the Martin legacy," I said, looking straight into his wide, stunned eyes. "This is what Arthur Martin did to his daughter whenever I spoke out of turn, whenever I failed an examination, or whenever I reminded him of my mother, whom he beat to death in our summer home when I was twelve."
Diego stood frozen in the dim light of the bedroom. The terrifying mafia boss, the ruthless prince of Providence who had come home to corrupt his enemy's daughter, looked as if he had just been struck by lightning.
"Arthur... did this?" Diego whispered.
"And Thomas watched," I added quietly. "Thomas held the door so the servants wouldn't hear me scream."
I looked down at the pile of silk around my ankles.
"So you see, Diego," I said, meeting his gaze without a single tear in my eyes. "You cannot humiliate me. You cannot corrupt me. You cannot break what has already been smashed into powder and put back together with iron wire. If you want to use my body to hurt my family, go ahead. But you are wasting your time. Arthur Martin never loved me. To him, I was just a punching bag that looked like his dead wife."
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Diego didn't move for three long seconds.
Then, slowly, he picked up his suit jacket from the chair, walked over, and gently wrapped it around my cold, bare shoulders.
