His eyes didn't blink. Not even once as he stared down at me, dark and unreadable. The silence stretched, thickening between us, until it felt like even air itself was holding its breath.

“Careful Alessia." He finally said, voice low. " You might mistake tolerance for admiration.”

My name on his lips, I swallowed subtly, my eyes fell to his lips briefly, I smirked, “Then I'll take what I can get Don Conti”

A faint spark of amusement glittered in his eyes, then it was gone immediately it came.

“Good. Because tonight you'll need both.” He offered me his arm, a sign of civility that felt more like a command.

I slid my hand around his arm, ignoring the jolt of heat that shot through me. Together, we descended into the sea of people with high social status, both in the criminal and business worlds.

The ballroom boomed with laughter amidst the low tune of violins. The chandeliers cast a warm glow onto the polished floors. Men in sophisticated million-dollar suits smiled like snakes, as we walked past them. The smell of expensive perfume couldn't even hide the undertone of gunpowder, sin, and greed.

Every pair of eyes turned to us as we slid through the crowd, the air was heavy with power, the kind of presence that demanded silence. Men nodded at him, rivals disguised as friends with fake toasts

“Smile." He murmured under his breath, “You're my peace treaty tonight."

I angled my chin slightly, the perfect obedient fiancée, my lips curved in a graceful mask. “You mean display piece?"

His reply came sharp, cutting through the violins. " Both. Don't speak unless you're spoken to. And don't…” he turned his head slightly towards me.

“... interrupt me when I'm talking to men who can buy your silence a hundred times over.”

My jaw clenched tightly, but I smiled sweetly. “Wouldn't even dream of it."

" Ah, Don Conti!”

A short round man with slicked hair and a diamond-encrusted cufflink stepped forward, arms spread wide, “The man of the hour!"

“Don Vartoni" Zavier's tone was pleasant, but his icy eyes held caution, “still breathing, I see."

Laughter rippled, strained and cautious. I stood beside him, smiling faintly, every one of my nerves on alert.

His beady eyes moved to me, “And this must be the bride-to-be," Vartoni said, his eyes dragging over me in a way that made my skin crawl. “Petrov's blood runs deep, yes? Your father is a smart man… for a Russian.”

I held his stare for half a heartbeat. Long enough to make him look away first. “Smart enough to keep his friends close." I replied softly, " And his enemies closer.”

Zavier's hand flexed, where my fingers rested. A warning, or was it amusement? I couldn't tell.

“Ah," Vartoni chuckled uneasily, “ a sharp tongue. You'll need it in this house."

" I prefer silence,” I said, smiling again. “People tend to talk too much when they're scared."

Zavier's voice dropped low towards my ear, " You're enjoying this.”

" Just playing my role” I whispered back.

“Good." He whispered, eyes never leaving the crowd. " Play it well, because everyone in this room wants something from me, and most of them want you dead.”

The words settled deep, cold in my stomach, as he moved us towards another group. Don Ricci and his wife, old power wrapped in velvet.

The conversation was layered, every polite word carried threats. I barely spoke, just listened, observed, and mastered every glance and slip of tone.

Because beneath all these, I had my own mission.

The music intensified again, and Zavier's attention shifted to one of his lieutenants whispering into his ear.

Now.

I slipped away in the distraction, quiet, controlled, years of training turned my footsteps to whispers.

The eastern corridor was empty, dimly lit, filled with portraits of long-dead Contis glaring down at me. My pulse steadied. My target was simple.

Zavier's study. Somewhere inside that room was the proof I needed. Links between the Italians and my parents' deaths. I began, moving stealthily towards the door. I pulled hard.

Locked.

Of course. But those were merely suggestions. I pulled a pin from my hair, letting the loose strands brush my neck.

Twisted it into the lock, several attempts then it clicked. The door opened with a soft sigh.

Inside, the air was colder, rich mahogany, lined with ledgers, and a massive desk with papers spread across it and a glass of untouched whiskey.

My eyes scanned everything fast. Receipts, files, coded accounts, a sealed letter half burnt on the edge of a silver tray.

I etched closer.

The Morano family crest, my heartbeat stuttered, as its rhythm increased.

I reached for it just as a vibration trembled through the floor. Too sharp, too heavy, then…

BOOM!

The explosion tore through the building, and screams echoed from the ballroom. Glass shattered as the chandeliers swayed violently overhead.

What was happening? I dropped to a couch, shielding my head as debris rained down. Through the haze, I heard gunfire, shouts. They're here. The mansion is being attacked.

I grabbed the half-burnt letter and shoved it into my dress slit. Sprinting out into the corridor, the thick smoke hits me instantly. I watched Zavier's men as they ran past me, shouting orders.

I reached the stairways just in time to see masked gunmen firing into the ballroom. I immediately ducked behind a pillar, drawing out a knife hidden beneath my garter.

One came too close, a big mistake. I slashed his thigh, disarmed him, and knocked him hard enough to make him go unconscious.

Another one blindly moved past me, aiming towards the direction Zavier was in the middle of the chaos, black suit ripped, blood on his sleeves as he moved with precision. His men were already forming a shield around him.

I lunged myself towards the masked man, my knife digging into his shoulder blade as I twisted it, as he let out a sharp yelp.

I watched him drop to the ground, with a satisfied thud. With a racing heart, I looked towards Zavier.

For a moment our eyes met through the smoke.

He froze.

His gaze swept over the fallen men at my feet. Then towards the blood on my arm. Realization dawned. Slow and dangerous.

The ballroom noise faded beneath his stare.

He closed the distance between us in long controlled strides, grabbed my wrists hard, spinning me around to face him.

The room felt smaller and airless around us. His grip burned my skin and not in a good way. I felt as if I'd been caught doing something very, very bad.

His voice came, rough, low, every word carrying a blade.

“Who the hell are you, Alessia?”