Refusing isn’t an option. Bratva politics always come first. The family’s alliances with both the Pedros and the Brunos are the glue holding half the city’s criminal aristocracy together, and tonight, I’m the one meant to keep the peace.
By the time I arrive, the Pedro estate is in full swing: lights blazing, laughter ringing out across manicured lawns, the air thick with cigars and false loyalty.
The place is dripping with gold, every chandelier and wine glass a monument to new money trying to buy respect. I move through the crowd with practiced indifference, accepting drinks I won’t finish, shaking hands with men I’d rather see in the ground.
I keep to the periphery, eyes sharp, scanning faces for threats and familiar dangers. This kind of party is a battlefield, even if the weapons are smiles and toasts. It’s all performance, the peace held together by a thousand veiled threats.
Then I see her.
At first, I only catch a flash of dark hair, the tilt of her head as she listens to someone beside her. She looks different in the shifting light, all elegance and composure—a world away from the nervous art girl or the woman who slipped out of my house like a ghost. I move closer, curiosity sharpening into something like dread.
She’s not alone. Matteo Bruno stands at her side, hand at her elbow, speaking low in her ear. Every muscle in my body coils tight, old anger pressing up against the back of my throat. The Brunos. Of course.
They move through the party together, Matteo marking her as his, all possessive confidence and showy pride. The room bends around them; people turn, watch, step aside. It’s the kind of scene I’ve seen a hundred times, alliances cemented by proximity, power passed through handshakes and introductions.
A laugh booms to my left. Shawn Pedro, all polished charm and crocodile grin, approaches with his entourage.
“Emil!” he shouts, slapping me on the shoulder like we’ve known each other a hundred years. “Glad you could make it. Wouldn’t be a party without the Sharovs.”
I nod, hiding my irritation. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
He gestures toward Matteo and Isabella, beckoning them over. “Let me introduce you to some friends. Matteo you know, of course, but I’m not sure you’ve met his lovely cousin.”
Matteo grins, pulling Isabella closer. She’s flawless, wearing a dress simple but expensive, hair pinned up, eyes wide and bright in the candlelight. There’s a flicker of something else there. Fear? Shame? Recognition? She doesn’t look at me.
Shawn beams. “This is Isabella Bruno, Vittorio’s niece. She’s the real treasure of the family.”
The name hits me like a blade: cold, clean, final. Isabella Bruno. Not Rossi. Not gallery girl, not mystery. Bruno. Blood of my oldest enemy, my family’s rival, the daughter of the house I’ve spent half my life plotting against.
All at once, every lie she’s ever told, every hesitation, every careful answer clicks into place. She’s not just anyone. She’s the enemy.
A chill settles over me, deadening the noise and the laughter and the golden lights. I see her differently now, every moment we shared, every soft laugh, every fleeting touch. All of it poisoned by this single revelation.
Isabella’s eyes finally meet mine. For an instant, everything in the room—politics, ambition, the weight of our histories—stands on the edge of a knife.
She looks away first.
The introductions hang in the air, brittle and forced. Shawn Pedro, all showman’s confidence, gestures expansively as if his hand alone can keep the peace.
“Isabella, Emil Sharov. Two of the city’s most promising young people. You should be friends, yes?” His laugh is loud and empty.
I nod once, measured and polite, every muscle locked tight beneath my suit. The urge to reach out, to grab Isabella’s arm and drag her into some shadowed corner, nearly overwhelms me. I want the truth now.
I see the cameras, the onlookers in glittering dresses, Matteo’s watchful eyes. Everything in this world is performance. Rage has to wait its turn.
Isabella goes pale as Shawn introduces us, color draining from her face. Her mouth opens, closes; she meets my eyes for the briefest flicker, then drops her gaze, lashes trembling. I watch the struggle in her, the part of her that’s been trained to smile, to be charming, to give nothing away. For a moment, it almost works. She manages a strained smile, offering her hand with careful composure.
“Mr. Sharov,” she says, her voice tight, brittle with the effort of control. “Nice to finally meet you properly.” The wordproperlylands hard between us, heavy with everything unsaid.
Matteo shifts beside her, posture bristling with territorial pride. He rests a casual hand at the small of her back, the gesture more warning than comfort.
“Emil and I have met,” he says, forcing the conversation along. “Always interesting to see the Russians out of their caves.”
Shawn laughs again, delighted by his own diplomacy. “Well, we all get along tonight. That’s what matters. The world’schanging, boys. Alliances, opportunities… let’s make the most of them, eh?”
I smile, but it’s only skin deep. “Of course,” I say, voice mild. “New York’s too small for old grudges.”
Isabella stiffens at that, and for a moment her eyes dart up to mine, wide and pleading, as if begging me to keep the secret, to let the night pass without consequence. I meet her look and hold it, just long enough to let her know the price of betrayal.
