Page 26 of Crimson Sin
The jewelry represents more than precious stones and metal. It’s steeped in the legacy of generations, shaped by women who commanded respect through fear and elegance. My mother wore these pieces to gatherings where power was displayed, and allegiances were tested. There's more history and power woven into those gems than I'm prepared to explain, secrets that died with Galina and will remain buried until Naomi needs to know them.
Hesitation wars with a deeper conflict in her eyes. She can sense the layers of meaning she's not being told, and the significance that extends beyond mere family heirlooms. Her fingers hover over the necklace without quite touching it, as though contact might somehow bind her to responsibilities she never agreed to accept.
“These isn’t just jewelry,” she observes quietly, her historian's instincts detecting the presence of untold stories embedded in those stones.
“No,” I agree, offering no further explanation. “They're not.”
She knows I'm withholding information, keeping her in the dark about the true nature of tonight's event. But I think she understands that some knowledge comes with a price she may not be prepared to pay.
I watch her struggle with that realization and see the moment she understands that wearing my mother's jewelry will mark her as mine in ways that extend far beyond our paper marriage. Every person who sees her tonight will know she belongs to the Zorin name, that harming her means answering to me.
“I'll send someone to help you dress,” I announce, already moving toward the door before the temptation to stay becomes too strong.
The need to touch her and offer comfort or reassurance claws at my chest with increasing intensity. But comfort isn’t something I can give. Not when tonight will test every boundary we've established.
She doesn't respond immediately. Her fingers continue to trace the edge of the velvet box, lingering on one of the diamond drops as though memorizing its texture. When she finally looks up, her eyes reveal a knowledge that wasn't there before.
“This isn't just business anymore, is it?” she asks quietly.
The question slams into me, striking at the truth I've been fighting to deny. I could lie. I should lie and maintain the fiction that this remains nothing more than a mutually beneficial arrangement. But the words stick in my throat, refusing to form. Instead, I stay silent. Because we both know the answer.
The gala venue is a monument to Chicago's Gilded Age, a former bank transformed into a space where various kinds of transactions now take place. The marble columns and vaulted ceilings were designed to inspire confidence in institutions that have long since crumbled, replaced by networks of loyalty and fear that operate in shadows the architects never imagined.
This is no ordinary business gathering, though I haven't shared that detail with Naomi. The guest list reads like a catalog of Chicago's most dangerous inhabitants. Men and women who control everything from drug distribution to political corruption. They gather here under the pretense of charity and culture, their true business conducted in whispered conversations and meaningful glances.
The security is extraordinary even by my standards. Metal detectors are hidden behind classical architecture, and armed guards disguise themselves as servers and attendants. Every entrance is monitored, and every guest is screened through multiple layers of verification. This is neutral ground where competing interests can converge without immediate bloodshed, but neutrality doesn't eliminate danger.
Several familiar vehicles already line the entrance when we arrive, armored sedans and luxury cars that belong to men who trust no one and survive by assuming everyone wants them dead. Viktor's silver Bentley sits among them like a serpent coiled in tall grass, beautiful yet deadly.
We arrive intentionally late, timing our entrance for maximum impact. The room needs time to establish its rhythms, foralliances to become apparent, and tensions to emerge. When we finally walk through those ornate doors, the atmospheric shift is immediate and unmistakable. Conversations pause mid-sentence. Heads turn, and every gaze lands on us with the bite of evaluation and judgment, but most focus on her.
Naomi moves beside me fluidly, the black silk gown flowing around her curves with effortless elegance. The dress is a masterpiece of subtle seduction, its design suggestive rather than revealing. But it's the diamonds at her throat that truly command attention. My mother's jewelry captures the chandelier light and throws it back in fractured rainbows that drip with legacy and power.
She wears those stones differently than Galina ever did. Where my mother used them as armor, Naomi wears them like an invitation wrapped in a warning. They enhance rather than overshadow, marking her as a woman who belongs at my side without diminishing her own presence.
Nerves radiate from her in waves I can feel through the space between us. The slight tremor in her fingers, where they rest against my arm, betrays the anxiety she's fighting to control. But she doesn't falter or retreat. Her chin lifts with determination, her shoulders squaring as she prepares to face whatever tonight might bring.
Pride swells in my chest, fierce and unexpected. She handles the scrutiny better than I had any right to hope, meeting every stare without flinching and maintaining exactly the right balance between confidence and deference. The academic in her is processing information, cataloging faces, and filing away connections for future reference.
We begin our circuit of the room, weaving through clusters of conversation with the poise of routine. Each group represents a different aspect of Chicago's shadow economy. The Russians gather near the bar, their expensive suits unable to completely hide the violence that defines their business model. The Italians hold court near the windows, their movements economical and their voices pitched low. The Irish representatives have claimed the area near the jazz trio, their casual postures belying the keen intelligence in their eyes.
My security detail maintains their positions at carefully spaced intervals. Lex watches from near the entrance, scanning for threats. Timur has positioned himself to observe the service corridors, while Roman's sniper instincts have led him to claim high ground near the mezzanine level.
Our first stop brings us to Saveliy Chernov, a mountain of a man whose shipping empire masks more lucrative cargo than legitimate goods. His weathered face breaks into a genuine smile as we approach.
“Daniil Zorin,” he booms, extending a hand that could crush bones. “And this must be the beautiful bride I've heard whispers about.”
“Saveliy,” I reply, accepting his grip. “Allow me to present my wife, Naomi.”
She extends her hand with perfect grace, and I watch with dark satisfaction as Saveliy's eyes light up with appreciation. “Mrs. Zorin, the stories of your beauty were greatly understated.”
“You're very kind,” Naomi replies with just the right note of warmth without overstepping. “Though I suspect you'reaccustomed to saying such things to make nervous wives feel welcome.”
Saveliy's laugh is thunderous. “Clever as well as beautiful. Daniil, you chose well.”
“She chose me,” I correct, my hand settling possessively at the small of her back. The gesture isn't lost on Saveliy, whose eyes sharpen with understanding.
“The shipping business must be fascinating,” Naomi continues, drawing Saveliy's attention back to her. “I imagine you see the world differently than most of us, understanding how everything connects.”
