Rocco waits at the bottom of the stairs—suit too tight for his wide shoulders, his jaw already clenched. Once, he was a boy I played tag with in the gardens… now he is my leash. Despite the forced distance between us and the knowledge that at one command from my uncle, he would shoot me in the back without hesitation, he's still the only person in this house I trust… and vice versa.
It isn't our fault we're forced into this life, after all. I can't fault him for doing his best to survive, and he can't fault me, either.
When I reach the bottom of the staircase, I give him a nod in greeting and start toward the front door.
"Two steps behind," I command as we cross the foyer. If he stands too close during the event, it'll only complicate things.
Rocco's voice is clipped, "Alessandro said one." He opens an umbrella and holds it over my head to protect me from the rain.
"I'm not Alessandro," I answer pointedly. Instead of arguing, he opens the car door and lets me take a seat.
Good. I prefer silence.
Once he's seated beside me, the driver begins our trip. The villa falls away, the massive, imposing structure shrinking in the rearview. Rain has turned the city into a polished, reflective dreamland. Rocco glances at me askance, his brow furrowed slightly.
"You'll be careful," he offers, which is what passes for prayer in our family.
I sigh, "I'll be effective."
"And careful," he repeats, this time a bit more adamant. "I don't want to carry you home."
"You wouldn't, anyway," I say. "I'd claw my way back on my own before I let someone help me."
He lets out an amused scoff, but quickly covers it with a sigh. "I know."
After around twenty minutes, the Moreau Tower comes into view. It pierces the sky, its powerful architecture looking back at me condescendingly. This tower, and the company that owned it, was one of the Ravelle's newest acquisitions. It was a partnership with a large real estate firm.
The Marchesi villa is a cathedral to old sins, but this is a chapel to new ones. I step out into a storm of paparazzi and irritating camera clicks—nothing new. I'm the daughter of the late Marchesi leaders, the proper heir to our empire. I get public attention wherever I go, as much as I hate it.
The carpet glows and lights flash, and Rocco follows dutifully two steps behind.
Inside, the elevator swallows us and spits us onto the top floor into an extravagant ballroom with so many chandeliers and crystals that it's almost blinding. There's a string quartet playing proudly from a small stage in a corner, their music filling the empty space in the air.
Everyone who matters is here, and half of those who don't matter are pretending. I feel eyes on me before I see them.
"Marchesi," a man purrs from behind a champagne flute. "You got an invitation?"
"I forged it," I say, and keep walking. A politician I recognize stares at me with a discerning and calculating stare. Some minister of something irrelevant laughs too loudly and checks around the room like he's searching for something.
Undoubtedly, he's trying to get the attention of our dearest host, Lucius, who has yet to show his face.
Rocco ghosts my shoulder, and I can't tell if it's on purpose or not. Before I can say anything, he speaks.
"Two steps," he mutters.
"Count them," I say, my voice dry, but I let my smile dazzle a photographer who thinks he can catch me from an unflattering angle.
The smooth bows of the quartet slowly shift into something more lively. A waltz. I sigh, knowing that this is when the curtains usually rise and all the acting begins.
I feel the change before I see him—the subtle shift of attention, and the conversation lowers without anyone explicitly stating why.
He arrives without hurry, the room parting as if it's good manners to stop breathing for him. The thin red line along his jaw I put there: my signature on his skin. A lovely, tailored black suit with a wine-colored tie.
…And he walks directly toward me. Awkward, but I guess this makes things easier for me.
"Miss Marchesi," Lucius says, the name leaving his lips laced with mischief. "I wondered when you'd come dressed to kill me properly."
"Mr. Ravelle." I tip my head so the pearls I'm wearing catch the light. "I wouldn't want to let our dashing host take all the attention."
His gaze lingers, and he looks me up and down lazily. His eyes aren't crude, but… appraising. He smirks, "I don't mind sharing the attention if it's with you.
Rocco shifts slightly behind me, garnering Lucius's attention. Lucius glances at him once, amused, like he was looking at someone's pet misbehaving. Then he offers his hand. "Dance?"
He's putting me on the spot; I wasn't planning on seducing him on such a… public scale, but if I refuse the dance, it would make a headline on its own. I steel my resolve and place my palm in his.
He leads clean, each step perfectly placed and in time with the music. The crowd watches, like they're starving, reveling in the drama of it all; the feud between our families is very well-known, even among ordinary civilians. He keeps exactly one breath between us, which reads as propriety and feels like a string pulled tight.
"Your family throws heavier parties," he says lightly as we turn.
He's right, we Marchesis are known for our… frivolous celebrations. We throw a party for every special occasion, and for, well, every occasion, no matter how ordinary.
"Your family throws prettier ones," I smile thinly.
"We do wear better suits," he counters, almost smiling. He glances down at my gown once again, "But I think you fit right in."
He guides me through a pivot; his hand slides a fraction lower than etiquette allows, skimming the place along my ribs where a bruise has bloomed… the exact place where the muzzle of his gun had been so crudely pressed three nights ago.
The pressure in his touch is measured, exploratory. It hurts a little, but my body refuses the courtesy of trembling, and my eyes narrow.
"Do you like the gift?" he murmurs.
"Gift?" I ask quietly, incredulously. "The bruise?"
The corner of Lucius's lips turns upward slightly, serving me a lopsided smirk. He tilts his head just enough to show me the thin line I had sliced along his jaw, "I like yours."
"Mm…" I inspect the wound thoughtfully; I'll admit that it does look kind of good on him. I close my eyes for a moment, focusing on the sensation of his thumb pressing against my bruise. I answer quietly, "I guess it's not the worst gift I've received."
His laugh is quiet and devastating. "Good."
We cross beneath the central chandelier, light scattering across his cheekbones. Up close, he smells the same as he did that night, though a little less like rain and a bit more spicy.. I hate that my lungs memorize it, and that
"I didn't think that you'd come tonight," he says near my ear—polite voice for the room, blade for me.
"I missed you," I reply. "So I invited myself."
"Invited yourself?" His mouth curves, his blue eyes piercing into mine knowingly. "If you wanted to see me again, all you had to do was ask."
I meet his gaze unwaveringly, "Is that so? Even after our… interesting first meeting?"
"Especially after our interesting first meeting," he replies without even a moment of apprehension. "A little assassination attempt never hurt anyone. Besides, we're even."
We turn, and I can hear the whispering gossip at the edge of our orbit.
"Marchesi sent their heiress?" someone breathes.
"Ravelle never dances."
"He's definitely dancing now."
He doesn't look at them or even acknowledge that there are other people in the room at all. Instead, he looks at me like a problem he intends to enjoy solving.
"Tell me something honest," he says.
I consider my truths and decide to throw him a bone. "I don't like being told what to wear."
"Hmm," Lucius hums in understanding. "Well, you wear disobedience beautifully."
"That's not a compliment," I say.
"It isn't," he agrees, and his finger ghosts the edge of my glove while we both pretend this isn't a completely twisted interaction.
The music softens. He lifts my hand, kisses my knuckles like the part he's playing requires it. The press of his mouth lasts a little too long, and in that sliver of time, his eyes find mine, and the world narrows to a promise of danger.
"Thank you," he says to the audience. Then, lower, for me: "You came dressed as a question. I look forward to the answer."
He releases me, and the quartet swells back into something more suited for background music. It feels like the room exhales, disappointed we didn't break into a fight in the middle of the floor.
I drift toward a window because I need glass to keep me grounded when all Lucius seems to do is unbalance me. The city below is beautiful, even though I know it is dark beneath the surface. I sigh, looking at my reflection.
Dressed like a question, huh? What kind of cryptic nonsense is he hinting at?
I'm wearing the short black gown I picked out, not the dress Alessandro gave me to wear. His taste is outdated and far from flattering; he wants to dress me as a doll, not a woman.
I sigh and reach to tuck a loose strand behind my ear—and go still.
My left earring is gone. I check the floor, the neckline, the hollow of my collarbone. Nothing. The right pearl is alone at my lobe, heavy and smug, while my left ear is completely bare.
Did he… steal my fucking earring?
What in the hell for?
Rocco arrives at my shoulder, clockwork precise. "Problem?"
"None," I say. I school my expression and keep my voice level. "Circulate."
Across the room, Lucius is pretending to listen to a minister droning on in his ear. He raises his glass, barely enough to notice, but his cuff slides back with the motion. For a fraction of a second, something small and bright sits in the shadow of his palm. His mouth tilts in amusement.
He did!
My pulse quickens, but I take a breath. Whatever reason he had to take it, I'm not going to confront him about it.
Although I was sent to fraternize with him, I also need to gather information. I turn from the glass with a smile that belongs to a woman I'm willing to be for exactly as long as it buys me leverage. The ballroom reclaims me, and I start infiltrating conversations.
They sent me to bait him, but Lucius Ravelle bites on his own terms. I'll figure out how to get around it.