Page 390 of Rosetti Family New York
---
Twenty minutes later, Isabella comes back downstairs in that damn gray silk dress from the gala, the one that hugs her curves like a second skin. It's too tight, the fabric straining across her breasts and hips in ways that make my mouth go dry. She's paired it with simple black heels, and her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders.
The dress is meant for someone smaller, someone who doesn't have Isabella's dangerous curves. But Christ, the way it clings to her body makes my cock twitch in my pants.
We're in the back of my car, heading toward Manhattan. She sits beside me, crossing and uncrossing her legs in that tight silk dress. Every time she moves, the fabric pulls across her thighs, and I have to force myself to look out the window.
The city rushes past in a blur of glass and steel, but I'm more focused on the woman beside me. She's twisted her hair into a low knot, and the afternoon light catches the gold threads in the blonde. The dress shows off the elegant line of her neck, the curve of her collarbones, the swell of her breasts where the silk strains against the fabric.
"Where exactly are we going?" she asks, tugging the hem of the dress down.
"Somewhere you'll feel at home." I help her out of the car outside a nondescript building in the Garment District. The sidewalk is busy with tourists and locals, but I keep my hand possessive on her lower back as we walk. "Trust me."
We take an elevator to the fifteenth floor, where the doors open to reveal a private showroom. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city, and elegant mannequins display one-of-a-kind pieces. Soft music plays from hidden speakers, and the air smells like expensive leather and silk. It's the kind of place where celebrities come when they need something made just for them.
"Mr. Rosetti." A distinguished man in his sixties approaches us, his accent faintly European. Silver hair, perfectly pressed shirt, the kind of confidence that comes from dressing powerful women for decades. "Everything is prepared as you requested."
Isabella looks around, taking in the private showroom, the champagne waiting in crystal flutes, the racks of clothes that look like they belong in a museum. "You arranged all this?"
"Can't have you wearing Carmela's castoffs forever." I accept two glasses from a hovering assistant, offering one to her. The champagne is cold against my fingers, bubbles rising to the surface like tiny jewels. "That dress doesn't fit you properly."
She takes the champagne but doesn't drink, just holds it like a prop. "There's nothing wrong with this dress."
"There's nothing wrong with your body either. But that dress wasn't made for a woman with your curves." I let my gaze travel over her slowly, deliberately. The way the silk pulls across her hips, the way it can barely contain her breasts. "You deserve things that fit you like they were made for you. Because they will be."
The designer appears with an armload of options. Silk dresses in jewel tones, cashmere sweaters soft as clouds, leather that probably came from Italian cows who lived better lives than most humans. Everything tailored, everything perfect, everything designed to make a woman feel like a queen.
"I don't know where to start," Isabella says, and for the first time since I've known her, she sounds uncertain.
"Start with what calls to you." I settle onto a low sofa, legs spread wide, ready to enjoy the show. The leather is buttery soft under my hands, and I can see everything from here. Thechanging area, the mirrors, the way light plays across expensive fabric. "We have all day."
She disappears into the changing room with the designer, and I sip my champagne, waiting. The anticipation builds in my chest like heat, rich and complex. I've bought things for women before, but never like this. Never with the bone-deep satisfaction of knowing I'm giving someone exactly what they need.
The first outfit she tries is a navy cashmere sweater with matching pants. Safe. Boring. The kind of thing she'd wear to a museum board meeting. She looks beautiful, but contained. Like she's hiding behind expensive fabric.
"No," I say before she can ask. "Try something else."
The second is a leather dress. Black, fitted, with a zipper that runs from throat to hem. She steps out, and I can see the way she moves differently in it. More confident, more aware of her own power. But it's still not right.
"Better," I say, my voice rough. "But not quite."
She disappears again, and I can hear the rustle of fabric, the whisper of silk against skin. The assistant hovers nearby, refilling my champagne, but I barely notice. All my attention is focused on the changing room, on the woman inside it.
When she emerges the third time, every coherent thought leaves my head.
The emerald silk dress hugs her curves like it was painted on her body, flowing over her in ways that make my cock go hard instantly. The color brings out the fire in her eyes, makes her skin glow like she's lit from within. She looks like every fantasy I've ever had wrapped in expensive fabric.
"Jesus," I breathe, setting down my glass before I drop it. My hands clench into fists to keep from reaching for her.
She turns in front of the three-way mirror, studying herself from every angle. The dress moves with her, silk whispering against silk, and I can see the exact moment she realizes her ownpower. Her spine straightens, her chin lifts, and suddenly she's not just wearing the dress. She's owning it.
"It's beautiful," she says, voice soft with wonder.
"You're beautiful." I stand up, moving closer. "The dress is just packaging."
She meets my eyes in the mirror, and something passes between us. Something electric and dangerous and absolutely inevitable. My pulse kicks up, and I shift in my seat, trying to relieve the pressure building in my pants.
"You're staring," she says, but there's no accusation in her voice. Just awareness.
