Page 135 of Corrupted By the Mafia Daddy

He didn't explain. Just reached for the dark canvas bag slung over his shoulder, pulled out a handcrafted antique cedar box, and pushed it carefully toward me.

The box had intricate Sicilian acanthus leaf carvings. The brass clasp wore a patina of oxidized green.

"Open it."

I glanced at him, fingers on the cold brass, and flicked it open.

The moment the lid lifted, cedar oil and dried lavender wafted out. On black velvet lining lay two rolls of uncut deep charcoal-silver antique lace.

Late nineteenth-century Sicilian Palermo convent lace. A lost piece.

Every openwork pattern was hand-crocheted with ultra-fine pure silver thread wound around silk, edges bearing aggressive thorn-like barbed structures. Under the fluorescent lights, it didn't have that cheap industrial shine or the fragile softness of ordinary lace. Instead, it gave off a deep, cold luminescence—hard as metal armor yet flowing like fabric.

My fingertips trembled as they brushed the icy silver threads. I stopped breathing.

This was the missing piece.

It exceeded even the wildest vision in my design sketches. It captured the soul of "Wild Rose"—breaking free, blooming with thorns.

"How... how did you get this?" I looked up, unable to stop smiling.

"Isa mentioned you were looking for special lace," he said. "I happen to know the owner of that shop in Rome."

"Happen to?"

"Alright." He admitted. "I called specifically, had them dig through their archives overnight, sent it via private jet."

I was quiet for a moment. "This must have cost a fortune."

"Not much."

"Marcelo..."

"Ruby." He cut me off, eyes serious. "This isn't charity. Not control. I just want to support your dream. You don't owe me anything. You deserve this."

I looked into his eyes. No deception. No manipulation. Just genuine, unconditional support.

"Besides." He leaned back, lips quirking. "When 'Wild Rose' wins, I can brag everywhere that I know this genius designer."