The gala had ended two nights ago, but its aftermath still clung to Bella like smoke after a fire. She couldn’t shake it, the way Alex Moretti’s voice had cut through her, low and sharp, or the way his eyes had locked onto hers like he was trying to read every secret she thought she had buried.

She had walked out of his office head held high, not backing down and showing any weakness, but ever since that night the memory had eaten at her like bone-eating teeth. She loathed herself for it. Loathed that a man like him, a man that she ought to loathe, had gotten under her skin so easily.

Bella prided herself on being practical, grounded. Love and luxury were for other people. People whose lives hadn’t been ripped apart, whose brothers weren’t one bad decision away from falling off the edge.

Neither was Alex Moretti very forgettable.

She told herself it was anger. It was only resentment that kept replaying his face in her mind. The arrogance in the set of his jaw. The unyielding command in his tone.

But after bedtime when the flat was silent and Ethan was out once more, a perilous truth was whispered to her, and a part of her wasn't only enraged. A part of her was. curious.

And curiosity, Bella was aware, was a dangerous thing.

Ethan, though, had long since thrown the incident out of his mind.

"Relax, Bella," he'd assured me that morning, slapping a piece of stale bread into the toaster like nothing in the world could ever ruffle him. "Men like Moretti forget this kind of thing within a week. He has bigger fish to fry."

Bella had nearly snapped the knife that was within her grasp. "You don't comprehend, Ethan. Men like that don't forget. They wait. They watch. And when you don't anticipate it, they strike back harder than you can handle.

But Ethan only flashed her the uneven smile that made her remember their father when he promised everything would work out when things were falling apart.

"Mabuting mag-alab ng malakas ang ungkas. Mabuting mag

Bella said nothing. He did not comprehend, because she had never revealed the complete truth of the night their father had died. Of the shadows that never went away.

It was evening when, after her shift at the diner dragged on long enough, Bella pulled off her apron and stuffed it abruptly into her locker with tired shaking hands.

The restaurant was deserted now, the neon sign humming dimly outside the windows, but she could still feel the pressure of unseeing eyes upon her. Her chest constricted with fear as she emerged into the cold night air.

The city pulsed around her, horns honking on taxis, feet thudding on wet pavement, bits of laughter drifting from pedestrians. Usually, noises were enough to suffocate her problems. This night, they only made them bigger.

She buttoned up her coat and hurried toward the subway.

Every few strides, she glanced back. It was an ordinary crowd: businessmen with worn suits, harried women carrying grocery bags home, a man taking his dog for a walk. They are not suspicious. And yet the base of her neck prickled with the cold certainty that someone was looking at her.

Her pulse raced.

When she got to the station door, she stumbled over her MetroCard and dropped it once before she was able to swipe by. She made herself take a deep breath and go downstairs and remind herself that she was being paranoid.

Relax, Bella. You've been through tougher times. This is nothing.

However, the discomfort stuck with her the rest of the way home.

Across the street, ensconced in the shadows of a trendy little coffee shop, Miranda Vaughn stirred her espresso with surgical finesse. The gold spoon rang against porcelain with a cadence equal to the calculated deliberation within her head.

She had seen Bella depart from the diner. Seen her pace anxiously, like a doe sensing the hunter's gaze on her shoulder.

Miranda smiled faintly and swallowed. It was bitter-tasting, but the bitterness was right for her mood.

This was the girl. Bella Russo.

Pretty, of a fragile sort. Not flashy, not put together, not that type of woman within Alex's domain. And so it was doubly insulting.

Miranda sat back in her chair, one classy leg thrown over the other. She wore her power like a scent, imperceptible but undeniable. Her hair was twisted back into a smooth updo, her dress was black silk that sparkled like oil in the dim light. Every movement bespoke control.

And Bella Russo? Chaos dressed in low-cost cloth. A nonentity with piercing eyes and stiff shoulders.

But Miranda had witnessed the sidelong glance Alex had thrown at her at the gala. That moment of interest that he believed nobody had seen.

Miranda witnessed everything.

And if Alex thought that he could replace her—the woman who had walked beside him in the boards of directors' rooms, in the newspapers, in closed room negotiations—he was seriously mistaken.

"Another cocktail, Ms. Vaughn?" the waiter said, bringing her out of her trance.

Miranda's face did not curve upward. "No. I have exactly what I came for.

She stood up gracefully and put on her gloves. Her car was already waiting at the curb, and the driver bowed and opened the door.

"Back to the penthouse, ma'am?" he said.

Miranda's mouth pursed tighter into a harder smile as she settled back in the leather. "No. To Moretti Global.

High above the city, in a glass tower that reflected the night sky, Alex Moretti sat in his office, a glass of scotch sweating in his hand.

The skyline stretched before him, uncountable lights winking against darkness, but he did not look at it. His mind was elsewhere.

To both.

Bella Russo.

He condemned himself for ever considering her name. He had empires to manage, foes to silence, and a whole legacy hanging by the tip of a blade. He did not have room for distractions. Least of all those dressed in mutiny and flames.

And yet. she remained.

The way she had looked at him, fearlessly, as if seeing through his armor. The way her voice had trembled but never broken. He had encountered thousands of women within the years of his thirty-four years of life, and none of them had ever dared come up against him toe-to-toe.

They all wanted his money. His name. His power.

But Bella? Bella had simply desired protection of her brother.

It irritated him. It intrigued him.

He completed the rest of what was in his drink and put the glass abruptly on the table.

Damn her.

Bella came home to find Ethan collapsed on the sofa, books unmoved, headphones still emitting sound waves into ears that never quite perceived.

She towered above him, fatigue wrestling with anger. He looked so young like that, so rash, but Bella saw the cracks. The nights. The lying. The edge he was driving himself toward with every choice.

She draped a blanket over him and smoothed a tendril of hair back from his forehead. Her voice broke on a whisper. "You are all I have of you left, Ethan. Never make me lose you too."

Her phone buzzed suddenly, startling her.

She grabbed it and scowled at the unknown number displayed on the screen.

"Hello?" It was a wary voice.

Silence.

Not a single breath.

Then the line went dead.

Bella's torso tightened. Fingertips trembled when Bella placed the telephone on the table.

It had been nothing. Wrong number. That was what she repeated to herself.

But she knew better deep down.

Somewhere in the city, Miranda Vaughn relaxed back against silk cushions, cell and slow smile spreading across her mouth.

"Game on," she said quietly to the silent room. Bella Russo had just entered the shadows. And Alex Moretti was just about to discover that he was not the only one observing her.