The Dressmaker Told the Mafia Boss to Stop Practicing His Dating Tricks on Her

On Friday evening at 6:45 PM, South Philadelphia was wrapped in a thick, wet fog that rolled off the Delaware River.

Claire stood inside her shop, looking at her reflection in the long fitting mirror.

She wore a simple dark green wrap dress she had sewn herself two years ago—nothing fancy, but tailored precisely to her waist, falling in clean, elegant folds to just below her knees. Her dark hair was styled in soft waves over one shoulder.

She was checking her lipstick when a low, guttural engine rumbling echoed down the narrow street outside.

Claire walked to the window, pulling back the lace curtain.

A sleek, black Maybach pulled up to the curb directly in front of her shop, idling quietly in the rain. Behind it sat a black suburban with tinted windows.

The driver’s side door of the Maybach opened, and a man in a dark overcoat stepped out, opening a large black umbrella.

It wasn't Ethan.

It was Marco—Adrian’s primary driver and head of personal security, a broad-shouldered man with a broken nose who usually looked as if he were calculating the structural integrity of every building he entered.

Marco walked up to the shop door, the brass bell ringing as he stepped inside. He removed his leather cap, holding it respectfully in his hands.

"Ms. Bennett," Marco said politely.

Claire frowned, dropping her clutch onto the counter. "Marco? What are you doing here? Where’s Ethan?"

Marco cleared his throat slightly, his eyes remaining carefully neutral. "Mr. Hayes called Mr. Moretti forty minutes ago to express his regrets. It seems Mr. Hayes’s photography studio experienced an unexpected electrical inspection from the city building department this afternoon. His main circuit board was deemed a fire hazard. He is currently occupied with three city inspectors."

Claire’s mouth fell open. "An electrical inspection? At six o'clock on a Friday night?"

"Philadelphia municipal services are surprisingly diligent this quarter, ma'am," Marco said without a trace of irony.

Claire stepped out from behind the counter, her green dress swishing around her calves. "Adrian did this."

"Mr. Moretti merely expressed concern for the fire safety of neighboring businesses on Passyunk Avenue," Marco offered smoothly. "However, Mr. Moretti recognized that your evening was already planned. He has reserved a table for two at Osteria Stella. The vehicle is waiting."

"Tell Mr. Moretti he can take his city inspectors and his Maybach and go to hell," Claire said, her voice rising.

"I could deliver that message, Ms. Bennett," Marco said calmly. "However, Mr. Moretti is currently seated at the corner booth of Osteria Stella holding a velvet box containing the original deed to this building. He mentioned something about transferring the property title to your name before the antipasto arrives."

Claire froze mid-step.

She stared at Marco. "The deed to my building?"

"Mr. Moretti purchased the property from your landlord, Mr. Henderson, at three o'clock yesterday afternoon," Marco explained, opening the door and holding the black umbrella over the threshold. "He felt your current lease terms were predatory. After you, ma'am."

Claire stood in the quiet shop for five seconds, her chest rising and falling with sharp, furious breaths.

Her landlord, Henderson, had been raising her rent by twelve percent every six months, threatening to evict her if she didn't agree to a five-year commercial lease extension she couldn't afford. Adrian had simply bought the building out from under him in twenty-four hours.

"He is unbelievable," Claire muttered under her breath, snatching her coat off the rack. "He is the most manipulative, overbearing, arrogant man in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania."

"Yes, ma'am," Marco agreed pleasantly, escorting her under the umbrella into the warm, leather-scented backseat of the Maybach. "He’s very thorough."

Ten minutes later, the Maybach pulled up to Osteria Stella—an exclusive, dimly lit restaurant nestled in a cobblestone alley off Rittenhouse Square. The front windows were fogged with steam, glowing with the amber light of beeswax candles and crystal chandeliers.

The maitre d' didn't ask for Claire’s name. The moment she stepped through the heavy oak doors, he bowed slightly and led her through the crowded dining room toward the private velvet-curtained booth in the far back corner.

Adrian was waiting.

He wore a dark navy bespoke suit with a crisp white shirt, no tie, the top two buttons unfastened to reveal the clean line of his throat. He was swirling a glass of deep red Barolo, watching the entrance.

When he saw Claire walking toward him—her green dress catching the candlelight, her eyes burning with pure, unadulterated fury—the faintest, most lethal smile touched the corners of his lips.

He stood up, his massive frame towering over the small table.

"Claire," he said, his deep voice carrying over the soft jazz music floating through the room. "You're late."

Claire walked straight up to the table, slammed her leather clutch onto the white tablecloth, and leaned across the candles until she was four inches from his face.

"Did you destroy Ethan’s electrical grid, Adrian?"

Adrian didn't flinch. He looked down at her red lips, then raised his gray eyes to meet hers.

"I didn't destroy anything," Adrian said calmly. "I simply asked the chief building inspector—who happens to owe my family three favors—if Mr. Hayes’s wiring met code. It didn't. I saved his life, Claire."

"You're a monster," she whispered.