I didn't rush. A woman who rushes is a woman who is afraid, and I hadn't felt fear in years.
I plucked a glass of deep, blood-red Barolo from a passing waiter's tray. I didn't gulp it; I let the wine coat my tongue, the tartness grounding me as my eyes swept the room. I was mapping it all: the security by the velvet-draped exits, the height of the balconies, the blind spots behind the marble pillars.
The air didn't just change; it stilled. I turned slowly, my expression a mask of bored elegance. And there he was. The same man who was standing by the marble fountain. Even behind his simple black mask, his presence was staggering.
Up close, he was a problem. His suit was tailored to perfection. He had the most beautiful hazel eyes I had ever seen—flecked with gold and amber.
"Every bird here has a mate," he said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone. "And yet, I find a phoenix standing alone."
"Maybe I don't like the company," I replied, my voice smooth and dangerously calm.
I finished the wine in one elegant swallow and placed the empty glass back onto a waiter's tray without breaking eye contact with him.
"Dance with me," he didn't ask—it was a command disguised as an invitation.
"I suppose I can spare three minutes," I murmured.
When my fingers met his, a jolt of electricity surged through me so sharply I almost gasped. I wondered if he felt the same shock. He led me toward the center of the floor just as the orchestra began a slow, haunting waltz.
As he pulled me into the dance, the world began to blur. The hundreds of guests, the shimmering chandeliers, the hushed whispers of the elite—it all faded into a dull hum. For a moment, it felt like we were the only two people in existence. It felt as if, in this dance, we simply belonged to each other.
"You're a better dancer than I expected," he murmured, pulling me an inch closer than was polite.
"I've spent a lot of time training," I replied. "In many things."
He smirked, "I don't doubt it. But you haven't told me your name. I'd hate to remember you only as the girl with the icy eyes."
"Why would I give my name to a stranger?" I leaned in, my lips brushing his ear. "Names are earned, not given. And you, signore, haven't done anything to earn mine."
His grip on my waist tightened. He liked the challenge. I could see it in the way his pupils dilated.
I don't know what came over me, "You have incredible eyes," I murmured, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
"And yours," he whispered, his hand firm on the small of my back, "are like the winter sea. Dangerous. Deep."
He spun me, and for a heartbeat, I forgot I was an assassin. I forgot about the briefcase of stolen cash and the machines keeping Leo alive. I was just a girl in a dress that felt like a dream, dancing with a man who looked at me as if I were the only mystery worth solving.
"I heard a rumour," I immediately changed the topic, "That the De Rossi family owns the very air we're breathing in Italy. They say the Don is a ghost who rules from a throne of secrets. Is he as terrifying as they say?"
Lucien's face didn't change. He played the part of the bored guest perfectly. "People love to tell ghost stories. Maybe he's just a man who knows how to keep what is his."
"And what is his tonight?" I asked, testing him.
He didn't answer right away, his gaze searching mine as if trying to read my soul. "Everything."
We stayed like that, lost in the music, our bodies moving in perfect, silent harmony. It was a Cinderella moment—fragile and impossible.
But the clock always strikes twelve.
During a sudden, sweeping turn, the silk ribbon of my mask brushed against the sharp edge of his cufflink. I felt the knot give way. Before I could catch it, the feathered mask slipped, sliding down my face.
I gasped, was exposed. The moonlight from the high windows hit the side of my face, revealing the small, distinct birthmark near my eye.
I didn't wait for him to process it. My hair fell forward, a dark curtain shielding my features, but I knew he'd seen enough.
"Excuse me," I choked out.
"Wait!" he called, reaching for me as I pulled away.
I didn't look back. I turned and cut through the crowd. Behind me, I could hear him calling out, the sound of his footsteps heavy as he tried to push through the sea of people.
He still kept on following me,
He was relentless, a predator who had found a scent he wasn't willing to lose.
My eyes darted frantically. A door. I just need a door.
But the ballroom was an open sea of people. I looked toward the grand staircase—no, he'd catch me before I hit the first landing. I saw the main exit, but it was wide open, flanked by De Rossi guards. My key was useless on an open threshold; the portal only sang when a lock was involved.
I veered toward a side exit, stumbling out onto the stone terrace.
I stopped at the top of the garden stairs and turned. Lucien was there, silhouetted against the golden glow of the ballroom. He wasn't running anymore; he was stalking toward me, his gaze fixed on my face with terrifying focus.
"Cara mia, stay. I only want to know who you are. I want a name for the face that's going to haunt my sleep."
The way he said it—so smooth, so Italian—almost made me falter. We stood there for a heartbeat, two strangers on a moonlit terrace, staring into each other's souls.
For a second, I wanted to stay. I wanted to see who he was without the masks. But then I remembered the machines in Leo's room. I remembered the blood on my hands.
"You're chasing a shadow, signore," I whispered.
My eyes darted past him. There, tucked under the shadow of the stone staircase, was a small, heavy oak door—a maintenance closet for the garden's irrigation system. It was narrow, weathered, and looked like it hadn't been opened in years.
I gave him one last, lingering look—a smirk that was half-devil and half-sorrow.
"Adieu, chéri." (Farewell, darling.)