I move quickly, footsteps soft on the runner, already rehearsing excuses: a book left at Clara’s, a late-night study group, a migraine that sent me to bed early. Maybe I’ll get lucky, maybe no one will notice—
Then I see him.
My uncle stands in the center of the hall, arms folded across his chest, suit immaculate despite the hour. The scent of his cigars is thick in the air, curling around him like another layer of armor. His expression is hard, carved out of something old and unyielding. The look in his eyes makes me feel small, likea child again, caught stealing cookies, except what I’ve stolen now is so much more dangerous.
“Where were you?” Vittorio’s voice is soft, almost gentle, but there’s steel threaded through it. The kind of softness that promises nothing good.
I freeze. The lies I practiced on the way home scatter like leaves. “Clara wanted to go dancing,” I manage, forcing my voice steady. “We were out with friends, that’s all.”
He says nothing for a moment, only studies me. His gaze is a searchlight, sweeping over every detail—the smudged lipstick, the faint shimmer of sweat at my temple, the hem of my dress poking from under my coat. I lower my eyes, fists curling at my sides, jaw set.
Vittorio’s shoes click against the marble as he steps closer. “Isabella, do you think I’m a fool?” His words are cold now, the patience slipping. “I’ve told you this city is not safe for you at night. You know better than to wander off without telling anyone.”
My heart beats too fast. I want to protest, to throw his own secrets in his face: the locked doors, the late-night meetings, the whispers about the Sharovs.
Instead, I swallow it all, letting the silence stretch between us. The urge to defend myself wars with the prickling edge of fear that always creeps in when he’s angry.
He sighs, rubbing his temple as if my carelessness is a burden only he can bear. “Next time you want to go out, you tell me. One of the drivers will take you, wait for you. You will not sneak out. Am I clear?”
“Yes, Uncle.” I force myself to meet his eyes. There’s worry in them, but it’s the kind that tightens into suspicion,into control. For a moment, something flashes between us—an understanding that neither of us will say aloud.
He’s not just protecting me. He’s protecting the family. The business. The secrets that have shaped my life and, now, threaten to destroy it.
“Go to bed, Isabella,” he says at last, voice flat. “We’ll talk in the morning.”
I nod, edging past him, feeling his gaze burn into my back as I head for the stairs. Every step feels heavy, the walls closing in. I wonder if he knows where I really was tonight. If he has men following me, watching me, reporting back. For all my careful planning, perhaps I’m not as invisible as I thought.
Upstairs, in the safety of my bedroom, I peel off the dress and toss it onto the chair, shoving the shoes deep into the back of my closet. My hands shake as I scrub away the last traces of club perfume, as if I can erase what happened, what I started. The thrill of the chase is gone now, replaced by a cold weight in my stomach.
I sit on the edge of my bed, staring out at the gardens, the city lights glittering beyond the walls. Tonight, for a few hours, I felt powerful, in control. Standing before my uncle—caught, small, outmatched—I realize just how quickly that power can slip away.
The game I’ve entered is bigger than me, its rules written long before I was born. I can only hope I’m clever enough to survive it.
Sleep is a distant hope. I pace my room, nerves raw, replaying every moment of the night—Emil’s steady gaze from across the club, the cold bite of Vittorio’s suspicion.
My phone vibrates with a message from Clara, just a string of hearts andget home safe?
I answer with a quick lie, thumbs trembling:Home, safe, all good. See you tomorrow.
I peel back the curtain and peer down at the empty drive, half expecting to see a shadow moving between the hedges, Emil’s car returned, Vittorio’s men lurking. But all I find is darkness and my own reflection, drawn and wary.
Sliding into bed, I tell myself I’m still in control. That I’m not just a pawn between powerful men, but someone with her own agenda, her own secrets.
Yet as I close my eyes, heart still racing, I can’t shake the sense that every move I make is being watched, every lie already guessed. The hunt has only just begun, and I’m already tangled in its web.
Chapter Eight - Emil
It’s a different world inside the gallery. Sunlight falls through tall, old windows in pale gold stripes, illuminating dust motes and glinting off polished wood.
There’s a hush to the place, a kind of peace I rarely find anywhere else in the city. Certainly not in the clubs, the warehouses, or the corridors where men bargain over things they’ll never own. Here, everything is deliberate—the careful arrangement of canvases, the muted echo of footsteps, the absence of threats lurking in every shadow.
I let the door swing shut behind me, the faint chime barely audible. For a moment I stand in the entryway, letting my eyes adjust. I could almost imagine I belong here, just another patron out for a slow afternoon, if not for the weight of the gun pressing at my ribs and the old scars tightening across my knuckles.
Mr. Grayson—nervous as ever, hands fluttering—greets me near the front desk, eyes bright with the prospect of a return visit from a Sharov.
“Mr. Sharov! We’re so pleased you could join us again. May I fetch Miss Rossi? She’s working in the south wing today.”
I nod, offering a polite smile, and watch the little man hurry off. I drift among the paintings while I wait, boots silent on the polished floor. Here, violence feels impossible. The walls hold the calm in place.
