He smiles, just a flicker at the corner of his mouth—and leans back, one arm draped over the booth’s edge, as if he’s already decided to wait me out. The wine arrives, poured with reverence, and I focus on the slow swirl of garnet in the glass. The taste is bright and cold. I wonder if he can hear the wild pace of my pulse from across the table.
A few more questions, a few more clever answers, and I almost start to breathe again.
Then I see him.
Across the restaurant, near the bar, stands Matteo. My cousin—Vittorio’s eldest son. He’s deep in conversation with another man, his back half turned, but there’s no mistaking the angular set of his shoulders or the sharp profile.
My heart slams against my ribs, every nerve burning with panic. He hasn’t seen me yet. If he turns, if he notices who I’m with—
I grip my wine glass, knuckles whitening. The cold seeps through my skin. Emil’s voice cuts through my terror, quiet but perceptive.
“Something wrong?” His eyes flick to where I was looking, sharp and assessing.
I manage a laugh, too high and brittle. “No, nothing. Just recognized someone from another event. I thought I might say hello later.” The lie lands with a dull thud. My mouth is dry; the taste of wine turns sour on my tongue.
Emil doesn’t press, but I see the subtle narrowing of his eyes. He knows I’m hiding something. For a split second, I wonder if I should warn him, tell him who Matteo is, but the instinct to protect myself overrides everything.
If Emil finds out who I really am, it’s over. If Matteo sees me here, I’m as good as dead.
“I’ll be right back,” I murmur, pushing gently away from the table. “Ladies’ room.”
He nods, watching me go. I keep my pace measured, refusing to run, forcing my body not to shake as I walk through the maze of tables and slip down a hallway painted with abstract art.
Inside the restroom, I lock the door behind me and brace my hands on the cool marble sink. My reflection is pale, eyes wide and wild. I count my breaths, slow and deep, trying to wrestle my fear back under control.
For a moment, I think of bolting out the back, into the street, leaving everything unfinished. I force myself to stay. If I run now, I lose all hope of learning what happened to Enzo. I lose my one chance at the truth.
I wet my wrists, pat my cheeks, pinch color back into my face. In the mirror, I practice my smile until it’s steady enough to fool a stranger. The bathroom door muffles the world, butI can still feel danger pressing close from both sides: Matteo’s suspicion, Emil’s curiosity, my own secret burning like a brand.
My phone buzzes in my purse. A text from Clara:All good? Still celebrating my “birthday”?
I nearly laugh. The lie is so simple, but tonight it feels enormous, a weight I can barely hold.
One last breath, one more check of lipstick, and I unlock the door. In the hallway, the soft pulse of music and the gentle hum of voices rise to meet me. I step out, back into the heat of the restaurant, back into the tightrope walk I chose.
Chapter Ten - Emil
Isabella slips away from the table, her absence leaving the air heavy and taut.
I settle back, letting the dim glow of the restaurant wrap around me, the last of my whiskey swirling gold in the bottom of the glass. My eyes roam the room, cataloging faces, exits, the way the staff move.
Most nights, people either pretend not to see me or they look too long—curious, hungry, nervous. Tonight is no different. Women’s eyes flick my way, linger, dart off again. A pair of men in tailored suits lean in, voices dropping, as if my presence alone warrants caution.
Someone doesn’t bother with caution. He approaches with all the subtlety of a threat, sharp Italian cologne trailing behind him. The kind of man who’s never waited for an invitation in his life. I recognize him before he even sits; a face from old files, surveillance shots, the kind of legacy that festers in rival empires.
“Didn’t think the Russians were welcome here,” Matteo Bruno sneers, sliding into Isabella’s empty seat as if he owns the world. He doesn’t bother to introduce himself. His smirk is wide, eyes gleaming with venom and pride.
I set my glass down, jaw tightening. The Brunos. Of all people, it had to be them tonight.
I give him nothing at first, just the flat, silent look that’s made stronger men lose their nerve. Matteo only leans in, elbows on the table, confidence oozing from every gesture.
“Heard you’ve taken an interest in the city’s art scene. Not really your style, is it?” His words drip with mockery, every syllable a veiled threat.
“New York’s full of surprises,” I reply, voice smooth as glass. “You never know who you’ll find sitting across the table.”
He laughs, but it’s sharp and humorless. “Guess even the Bratva need a side hustle these days. You laundering money through paintings now, or just collecting them for the décor?”
My lips twitch, but the smile is cold. “Careful. It’s easy to choke on your father’s shadow if you’re not paying attention.”
