The dress Dante had chosen was not red. It was a stark, midnight emerald—a color so deep it looked like the sea at the bottom of a cliff. It didn't cling like the silk at the auction; it was structured, with sharp shoulders and a high slit that revealed more than it concealed.
"You look like you're going to a funeral," Maria said, her voice softer than usual as she fastened the heavy gold necklace around Elena's throat.
"Maybe I am," Elena replied. She looked at herself in the mirror. The "Pearl of Boston" was gone. In her place was a woman with eyes that had seen too much, her skin pale against the dark fabric. "My own."
Dante was waiting at the foot of the stairs. He didn't say a word. He didn't tell her she was beautiful. He just watched her descend, his gaze tracing the line of the emerald dress with a cold, analytical precision. He adjusted his cufflinks, the gold glinting in the foyer's dim light.
"The Foundation gala is about optics, Elena," he said, stepping toward her. He smelled of sandalwood and a hint of ozone. "They will try to bait you. They will ask about the money Thorne mentioned. You will say nothing. You are there to be a Moretti's shadow. Do you understand?"
"A shadow," Elena whispered, her fingers twisting the fabric of her skirt. "Is that all I am to you, Dante? A map to a treasure chest and a shadow at a party?"
Dante leaned in, his face inches from hers. For a heartbeat, she thought he might reach out, but his hands remained at his sides. "Tonight, being a shadow is the safest thing you can be. Now, let's go."
The Metropolitan Museum was transformed into a glittering fortress for the evening. Every pillar was draped in white orchids, and the air hummed with the sound of a string quartet and the sharp, artificial laughter of the elite.
As Dante led her into the hall, the sea of guests parted like a wound. The whispers started immediately, but they were different tonight. There was no mockery, only a sharp, cold fear. Dante Moretti had systematically destroyed three of the city's oldest firms in the last year. No one laughed at the man holding the leash.
"Dante! My boy, you finally made it."
A man with silver hair and a smile that didn't reach his eyes approached them. Arthur Vane—the patriarch of the Vane family, and Julian's father. He looked at Elena, his expression a mask of polite disdain.
"And you brought... the Vance girl," Arthur said, the name sounding like a slur. "I heard my son had a rather unpleasant encounter with you last night."
"Your son should learn to keep his hands off things that don't belong to him, Arthur," Dante said. His voice was pleasant, but his grip on Elena's waist tightened, a possessive heat seeping through her dress.
"Indeed. But some things are too expensive to keep, aren't they?" Arthur leaned in, his voice dropping. "There are rumors, Moretti. Rumors about a second bid at the auction. A bid that didn't come from a man, but from an organization. They don't like losing."
Elena felt the air leave her lungs. The note. Ten million wasn't a bid. It was a ransom.
Dante didn't flinch. "I've never been afraid of ghosts, Arthur. Especially ones that hide behind organizations."
The music shifted. A tango began, the rhythm sharp and aggressive. Dante looked down at Elena. It wasn't an invitation.
"Dance with me," he commanded.
He led her to the center of the floor. The dance was a battle. Dante moved with a predatory grace, his body a solid wall of heat against hers. He spun her, his hand sliding down her spine, his touch both a tether and a threat.
"Dante," she breathed, her forehead nearly touching his as they moved in synchronization. "What did Vane mean? About the organization?"
"Focus on the step, Elena," he hissed, his eyes locked on hers. "There's a man in a gray suit by the north pillar. Don't look. He's been following our car since we left the estate. He's not one of mine."
Elena's heart hammered. She missed a step, her heel catching. Dante caught her instantly, his arm a steel band around her waist. He didn't let her go; instead, he pulled her closer, their chests heaving in unison.
"If anything happens," he whispered against her ear, his breath warm and terrifying, "you run for the service elevator. Don't wait for me. Go to the safe house address I burned into your memory this morning. Say the name 'Leo' to the guard."
"Dante, you're scaring me."
"Good. Fear keeps you alive."
The dance ended with a sharp flourish. Dante didn't let go of her hand. He began to lead her toward the balcony, his eyes scanning the crowd with a restless, jagged energy. But before they could reach the glass doors, the lights flickered.
A sudden, heavy silence fell over the room. Then, a muffled thud—the sound of a generator being cut.
Panic didn't happen immediately. It started as a low murmur, then a scream from the buffet line. Elena felt Dante's hand snap around hers, his grip so tight she thought her bones might crack.
"Stay down," he growled.
The glass of the high windows shattered inward. It wasn't an explosion; it was a tactical entry. Two figures in black tactical gear descended on ropes from the skylight. The room erupted into chaos. Men in tuxedos trampled over women in gowns.
"Move!" Dante shoved her toward the service door.
A figure in gray—the man from the pillar—blocked their path. He didn't have a gun; he had a knife, the blade dull and professional. He lunged toward Elena.
Dante didn't hesitate. He stepped in front of her, his arm rising to block the strike. The blade sliced through the sleeve of his tuxedo, a dark red stain blossoming instantly on the white fabric of his shirt. He didn't make a sound. He drove his elbow into the man's throat, a sickening crunch echoing in the hallway.
"Dante! You're bleeding!" Elena screamed, her hands reaching for him.
"Go!" he yelled, his face contorted in a mask of primal fury. He pushed her into the service elevator and hit the button for the basement. "Go now, Elena! If they get you, everything I did was for nothing!"
As the elevator doors slid shut, the last thing Elena saw was Dante turning back to face the two figures in black, his blood dripping onto the marble floor, his silhouette a lone, battered shield against a world that wanted her dead.
She was alone in the descending metal box, her hands covered in his blood. The "ransom" was no longer a metaphor. It was a debt written in red, and as the elevator jolted to a stop, she realized she didn't want to run. She wanted to go back.