If Uncle Vittorio ever found out about tonight, the consequences would be more than I can bear. If Emil Sharov ever learned who I really am, I’d be dead before the color faded from my lips.
Yet I keep going. I blot my mouth with tissue, set the tube aside, and sit for a long moment, hands in my lap. The dress I chose is simple but elegant: black silk, not too tight, with sleeves that brush my wrists. I want to be remembered, but not remembered too well. It’s a contradiction I’ve lived with my whole life. I fasten a delicate necklace at my throat, check my purse for the second time, and force myself to stand.
Every step down the sweeping staircase feels heavier than the last. The house is too quiet. I hear the rustle of newspaper from the sitting room, the faint scent of espresso and cigar smoke lingering from breakfast. I keep my posture relaxed, shoulders back, head high. Aunt Lucia is in the hall arranging peonies in a vase, her bracelets jangling softly as she works.
She glances up, gives me a warm, distracted smile. “You look lovely, Isabella. Where are you off to tonight?”
“Clara’s birthday dinner,” I answer, and the lie slides out smooth as water. I’ve had years to practice in this house, years spent tucking truth behind dimples and feigned innocence. My aunt’s eyes don’t linger; she’s already fretting about flowers, thinking of tomorrow’s charity luncheon.
Matteo is sprawled on the couch, flipping through channels. He glances over the top of the remote, gaze lingering a second too long. “That’s a lot of perfume for Clara’s party,” he mutters, eyes narrowed, but I just give him my sweetest smile and keep moving.
“Don’t wait up,” I call over my shoulder. My shoes echo on the tile as I slip out the side door, heart hammering beneath the silk.
Outside, the air is sharp and bright. My car waits at the curb, a sensible sedan that would never be noticed in a city of Bentleys and limousines. I drive first to the apartment I keep for emergencies—the place where Isabella Rossi can exist without shadows. There, I switch purses, smooth my hair, check my phone for messages. None from Emil, of course. He isn’t the type to text. The clock on the wall ticks past noon, and I force myself to breathe, to slow the frantic thoughts cycling in my head.
If I think too long about the danger, I’ll never leave this room. So I gather my things and go, locking the door behind me, stepping out onto the quiet street.
He arrives precisely on time, in a dark car gliding to a stop at the curb, humming with understated power. The driver’s side door swings open and Emil steps out, tall and severe in a dark suit, the kind of man who could empty a room with a glance or fill it with silence.
He rounds the hood, hand slipping into his pocket, and for a moment I see the glint of a cuff link, the barest edge of a tattoo on his wrist before it vanishes under his sleeve.
His gaze finds mine, lingering for just a second too long, searching my face for answers I’m not ready to give. There’s a careful tension in his posture—a man who expects danger and is ready to greet it. For some reason, that makes my own pulse steady.
He opens the passenger door for me, his movements effortless but deliberate.
“Bella,” he greets, the nickname warm on his lips, giving nothing else away. His face is unreadable, but there’s a question in his eyes, a challenge in the curve of his mouth.
“Thank you,” I reply, voice soft, holding his gaze as I slide into the leather seat. The interior of the car smells like clean cologne and new money. The door closes with a solid, expensive click.
I smooth my skirt, tuck my bag beside my feet, and rest my hands in my lap to keep them from shaking. The engine hums as Emil rounds the car and settles into the driver’s seat. For a moment, neither of us speaks. The city feels far away. Inside these tinted windows, it’s just us and the secrets we’re both pretending not to have.
As Emil pulls away from the curb, I let myself lean back, eyes fixed on the road ahead. I feel his eyes on me, thoughtful, curious, just long enough to make my skin prickle.
For now, I allow myself the smallest victory. I’ve stepped into the lion’s den by choice, and tonight, for once, the fear feels like freedom.
The restaurant is pure Manhattan opulence—white tablecloths, golden sconces glowing over velvet banquettes, and an air of privacy money can buy.
Emil guides me through the entrance with a hand gentle at my back, and for a moment I let myself be swept up in the illusion of safety, of elegance. He moves with the kind of self-possession that draws eyes.
Waitstaff straighten, doors open without a word, the maître d’ bows with genuine deference.
Inside, the world shrinks to a hush of clinking glasses and low conversation. Emil chooses a booth toward the back, half shadowed by a wall of artfully arranged mirrors. He gestures for me to sit first. There’s something old-fashioned in the gesture, but nothing soft. The dangerous glint in his eyes is a warning, a reminder that for all his charm, I’m sitting down to dinner with a man who’s made violence into poetry.
A sommelier appears, all nerves and professionalism. Emil orders a bottle in perfect, unhurried Russian; the man blinks, nods, and scurries off.
We’re left in the golden quiet, menus ignored. The leather seat is cool beneath my palms, and I force myself to relax into it, pretending this is just another night out.
He doesn’t let me have the illusion for long.
Our conversation starts easily enough: art, travel, exhibitions he’s seen, places I’ve only ever read about in books. He asks about my favorite cities, the best museum in Paris. I answer as evenly as I can, smiling at the right moments, steering the questions away from family, from anything real.
Emil is not distracted by small talk. His tone is gentle, but every question is a step deeper into the water.
“You seem too composed for someone new to this world,” he says, voice low, eyes dark over the rim of his glass. “Most people are more eager to impress, or more easily impressed.”
I meet his gaze, willing my voice not to shake. “I learn fast.” It’s a line I rehearsed all afternoon, but now it feels thin, breakable.
His eyes hold mine for a long second, weighing my answer, searching for cracks. Under the table, my hands are locked tight together, squeezing the fabric of my skirt.
