Chapter 4 - Threads of Power
The private elevator doors opened with a soft chime, breaking the suffocating tension of the penthouse suite.
Two of Luca’s largest guards hauled Bastion Vera to his feet. The designer was hyperventilating, his expensive silk tie dangling crookedly, muttering desperate pleas to a man who had already tuned him out.
Vivien refused to stand. She had to be dragged across the polished wood, her designer heels scraping uselessly against the floor as she screamed curses that echoed down the shaft.
“Luca! You can’t do this! You’ll ruin me! You’ll ruin everything!” her voice faded as the elevator doors slid shut, sealing their fate.
Inside the penthouse, the silence returned—heavier this time, purged of the lies and performance that had suffocated the room all afternoon.
Luca didn't flinch or look away from the elevator doors until they locked into place. Then, slowly, he turned back toward the fitting table.
I was already packing my tools back into my leather utility belt, sliding my silver scissors into their sheath with a practiced click.
“You’re leaving?” Luca asked.
“My shift ended ten minutes ago, Mr. Moretti,” I replied, adjusting the strap of my canvas tote bag over my shoulder. “And technically, I’m still an employee of Bastion’s atelier—though I imagine that business is going to experience a sudden and permanent liquidation by morning.”
A faint, humorless smirk crossed Luca’s lips.
“Bastion’s atelier is now property of Moretti Holdings,” Luca corrected smoothly. “Which means as of five minutes ago, your contract was bought out. You work for me now, Eleanor.”
I stopped packing and looked at him. There was no arrogance in his tone anymore—only the quiet, unyielding authority of a man who collected valuable things and never let them go.
“You haven’t even asked if I accept,” I pointed out.
“People like you don’t spend fifteen years mastering the structural tension of bespoke wool just to hem trousers for ungrateful socialites,” Luca said, stepping closer. He looked down at me, his gaze analytical, sharp, and entirely focused. “You’re wasted in the basement, Eleanor. You have the eye of an investigator and the hands of an artist. In my world, people with those skills don't sew linings—they dictate terms.”
I looked down at the platinum card resting on the mahogany table beside the discarded military tracker.
It was a terrifying offer. Stepping into Luca Moretti’s inner circle meant walking into a world of syndicate wars, corporate espionage, and constant danger. But as I thought back to the dark, suffocating years spent bent over a sewing machine in the back of a sweatshop while frauds like Bastion took the credit, I realized something else.
I wasn't afraid of dangerous men. I just hated being invisible.
“If I take this job,” I said slowly, lifting my chin to meet his gaze, “I make the rules about the tailoring. No one touches the garments once I seal them. No shortcuts, no compromises.”
Luca’s eyes gleamed with approval.
“Agreed,” he said. “And the wedding?”
I looked at the ruined black wool jacket draped over the table, with its slashed seams and exposed horsehair canvas.
“We scrap it,” I said firmly. “A man like you doesn't wear a suit that’s been compromised by traitors. We start over from scratch. Midnight blue, heavy Italian wool, double-reinforced seams, and a hidden lining built to carry whatever hardware you need to stay alive.”
Luca held out his hand—large, warm, and calloused from a very different kind of work than mine.
“Make it bulletproof,” he said.
May you like
I slid my hand into his, shaking it firmly.
“Mr. Moretti,” I smiled, for the first time all day feeling the true thrill of the craft. “In this city, everything I make is.”
