Before I reach it, a strong hand closes around my wrist.
I freeze, panic flooding my veins, but the grip isn’t cruel. It’s firm, possessive, a message I understand all too well:you don’t leave unless I let you.Emil stands behind me, close enough that his breath stirs the hair at the nape of my neck. For a moment, neither of us says anything. The world tilts, sound receding, and I’m left with nothing but the heat of his hand and the cold in his voice.
“Running away so soon?” he murmurs, his tone like a knife in silk.
I twist, searching his face. There’s no anger there, not in the way I expected. His eyes are dark, too calm, filled with something ancient and merciless. Not fury but something quieter, more lethal. My heart drops.
“I—I just needed some air,” I stammer, the lie flimsy even to my own ears.
His fingers tighten fractionally, pulling me a half step closer until our bodies nearly touch. The noise of the ballroom fades, the only sound now the shallow drag of my breath and the steady, measured exhale from his chest.
“You’re good at that,” he says, voice low. “Making people believe what you want them to.”
His eyes search mine, and I can see the calculation, the way he’s weighing every word, every twitch of my lips. I try to pull my wrist free, but he holds me fast, not hurting, just refusing to let me go.
He leans in, so close our foreheads nearly brush. “You wear your lies well,Isabella Bruno,” he whispers, the syllables deliberate, meant for me alone. “Lies always demand a price.”
His grasp is rough and warm, anchoring me in place as the party whirls by in a blur of noise and lights. The rest of the worlddrops away, and suddenly it’s only the two of us in the golden hush between breaths. Emil’s grip tightens. It’s not bruising, not cruel, but absolute. A silent reminder that, tonight, I am not as invisible as I thought.
He pulls me closer, the space between us vanishing in a heartbeat. My chest grazes his jacket. His other hand rises, fingers skimming the side of my face, thumb barely brushing the corner of my mouth. The room spins.
All I can hear is the violin music, laughter, the clink of glasses all melt into a hush that exists only for us.
He dips his head, his breath feathering across my cheek, his lips brushing so close to my ear I shiver.
“You should be more careful, Bella,” he murmurs, voice velvet and threat. “The world is smaller than you think.” I can feel the smile against my skin. It’s a dark, secret thing.
My heart pounds, every instinct telling me to pull away. I can’t move. I can barely think. He’s everywhere at once: his scent, his heat, the rough drag of his palm on my bare arm. I catch my own breath, trying to summon a lie or some shred of bravado, but the words dissolve on my tongue. I know he could expose me right here, shatter the careful mask I’ve built. But he doesn’t. Instead, he lets the tension stretch—his mouth just at the edge of mine, a promise and a warning.
For a wild moment, I think he’ll kiss me. The ballroom, the danger, the years of rivalry—none of it matters. There’s only this dizzy closeness, his eyes searching mine for answers I can’t give.
Then he smiles: a flash of teeth, something dark and triumphant. He pulls away, the absence of his touch like a wound. He walks off, disappearing into the crush of dancers and politicians, leaving me trembling.
The crowd closes around me, voices rising again, and I can still feel him: the imprint of his hand on my wrist, the ghost of his lips by my ear. Like a mark I can’t erase.
I stand rooted, breath coming too quick, unable to calm the riot in my chest. I thought I knew what I was doing. Thought I could play this game and win.
Now I wonder if I’ve underestimated the man I’m trying to destroy. He isn’t just a monster in my family’s bedtime stories. He’s real, and clever, and more dangerous than I ever imagined.
The crowd blurs as I stumble to the side, searching for a wall to steady myself. I try to hide my shaking hands in my skirt, pressing my palm against the spot where Emil touched me, desperate to chase away the heat he left behind. It’s no use. I feel branded, claimed, even if only for a moment. The realization terrifies me.
Before I can regain my composure, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.
“Isabella.” Uncle Vittorio appears at my side, face drawn and thunderous. I jolt, guilt spiking through me so sharply I almost gasp. Did he see? Was he watching?
He glances at me, and his gaze softens just a touch. Enough to tell me that whatever he saw, it wasn’t everything.
“We’re leaving. Now.” His voice is cold, clipped. “No reason to stay once that Sharov scumbag arrived.”
My throat is too tight for words. I nod, following as he steers me toward the exit, hand heavy at the small of my back. Every muscle in his body radiates anger. There’s something new, something wounded and furious beneath his usual pride. The hatred he feels for Emil—and all the Sharovs—crackles off him, nearly choking in its intensity.
As we wind through the party, I risk a quiet question, voice barely above a whisper. “Uncle… is it true? About the Sharovs and Enzo?”
I can hardly get the words out, dread and hope twisting together in my chest. Part of me wants him to say no, to tell me it’s all a misunderstanding, a lie crafted for our enemies’ benefit.
Vittorio’s jaw clenches, and for a moment, I see not the powerful head of the Bruno family, but a grieving father figure, broken and lost. He doesn’t answer at first. We reach the waiting car, and he stands for a long moment in the cold night, back to me, shoulders hunched.
Then, softly—so soft I almost miss it—he says, “Yes. They were behind his death.” The admission is sharp as a knife, final as a gravestone.
