The room was awash with soft, golden light, highlighting the elegant chaos of fabric swatches, glittering catalogue pages, and half-finished glasses of punch on the coffee table.

Annabelle perched on the edge of the sofa, her pencil skirt crinkling slightly as she leaned forward to examine yet another page Natasha had shoved in front of her.

“Tell me this doesn’t scream ‘classy mafia queen,’” Natasha teased, tapping a photo of an intricate black gown with plunging lines and an open back.

Annabelle laughed, shaking her head. “If I wear something like that, Cathy might disown me.”

Natasha smirked. “You’re getting there. I’ve seen the way Dante looks at you. Might...