My words land with practiced precision, each syllable edged in ice. I hold his gaze, let the silence stretch until it snaps.
Matteo’s smirk falters for a heartbeat. His jaw flexes, and for a moment, the mask slips and I see a flash of something raw and mean flickers in his eyes. He wants me to rise, to give him a reason to start a war in a place full of witnesses.
I’m not here for his games. Not tonight.
He regains his composure, leaning back with studied indifference. “We all have to adapt, don’t we? City’s changing. New money, new rules. Just don’t get too comfortable, Sharov. Old families still remember how to handle snakes.”
I lean forward, lowering my voice so only he can hear. “The city belongs to whoever has the stomach to hold it. Make sure you’re ready, when your turn comes.”
We hold each other’s eyes, two predators circling. The tension is razor-thin; it hums in my veins, every muscle wired tight, senses sharpened by the possibility of violence. Matteo is cocky, sure of his place in the world, but he’s young. I can see thecalculation in his eyes, the way he measures my every word for weakness.
A long moment passes. Around us, the restaurant goes on: glasses clinking, laughter bubbling, oblivious to the empire balancing on the edge of a knife at this small, elegant table.
Matteo stands abruptly, straightening his jacket with a flick of his wrist. The smirk is back, but it’s forced now, more brittle than before. “Enjoy your evening, Sharov. I’ll be seeing you around.”
He doesn’t wait for a reply, disappearing into the crowd with the same arrogance he arrived with. I watch him go, resisting the urge to crack my knuckles or reach for the gun at my side. There’s nothing more dangerous than a prince desperate to prove himself.
My reflection swims in the black surface of my drink, fractured and unfamiliar. I let out a slow breath, rolling my shoulders to release the tension. I remind myself of my purpose: why I’m here, what I’m after.
Matteo’s warning is nothing new, but it’s a complication I don’t need. If the Brunos are watching, then Isabella’s secret is even bigger than I thought.
Movement at the edge of my vision draws my attention. Isabella is returning, steps light, face composed, though I can sense the question in her eyes. She hesitates just before reaching the table, scanning my expression, searching for clues. I offer her a calm, careful smile, every muscle still humming with adrenaline.
The game has changed, and she’s not the only one risking everything tonight.
Moments later, Isabella settles into her seat with careful grace, chin lifted, but her eyes flick over my face as if searching for fresh cracks. The light in here turns her skin gold, lips still painted the same defiant red I saw that morning. She glances toward the empty seat across from me, then back, her voice casual but her tone too deliberate.
“Something happened?” she asks, her fingers tracing idle circles on the base of her wineglass as she sits.
I meet her gaze, steady and unreadable. She’s good at hiding nerves, but not as good as she thinks. I sense the edges of fear, tension tightening her shoulders, something not quite right in the set of her jaw.
“Nothing worth mentioning,” I say quietly, refusing to feed her worry. No need to turn Matteo’s performance into anything more than it was—a warning, a flare of old blood in a room full of new money.
She smiles, but the corners of her mouth quiver. I let the silence sit for a moment, testing its weight.
The waiter hovers, refilling our glasses, then disappears, leaving us in our private cocoon. The music is softer now, the clatter of cutlery distant and civilized, as if the city itself has leaned in to listen.
“So,” I say, voice smooth, “how does someone like you end up guiding lost men through galleries and museums?”
She laughs, the sound light but edged. “I like things that last. Things with stories. Maybe I just wanted to be near beauty.”
Her eyes hold mine, but there’s something else behind the words. a private history she’ll never share. I’m sure of it now.
I lean in, dropping my voice. “I have a few pieces you might like. Old things. Difficult to place.” I let the words linger, just a hint of invitation in my tone. “You should see them sometime. Come to my estate for dinner. I promise you won’t be bored.”
She hesitates. I can see her weighing every possibility, measuring risk against curiosity, safety against the answers she wants. “Maybe,” she says after a beat, trying for playful but not quite landing it. “I’d like that.”
We finish the meal in a careful dance; her holding tight to her role, me chipping at its edges, each of us marking the other’s boundaries by how far we lean in, how quickly we retreat.
When the bill comes, I sign without a word, watching her from beneath my lashes. The streets outside are painted with rain, lights smeared and doubled in every puddle.
I drive her back to the address she gives. Her so-called apartment. The building is small and unassuming, the front access lined with little potted plants.
She’s quiet in the passenger seat, hands folded in her lap, the city gliding past outside, each block another secret kept in motion. She thanks me as we pull up, the polite smile back in place. I watch her climb the steps, let myself wonder if she’ll look back, if she’ll run.
She doesn’t. She disappears behind the glass, and I’m left alone in the hum of the car, fingers tight on the wheel, her scent lingering in the air.
***
