The Art & Empire event draws all kinds: critics, old money, politicians, investors with briefcases too heavy for paperwork alone. I’m here to work, yes. But I’m also here for Enzo.
By midday, the pressure behind my eyes starts to mount. My phone buzzes with half a dozen reminders. Fragments of conversation catch at my ears as I pass through the halls.
I hear talk of Russian buyers, anonymous donations, hush-hush sales that never make the catalog. I swallow the unease, keep my smile professional, and check that my ID badge says Rossi in neat black print. Never Bruno. Not tonight.
The name sits strangely against my skin, both a shield and a dare. The Bruno name could open every door in the city, if I wanted to use it, but tonight it would slam them all shut.
Everyone knows what happened to Enzo. No one talks about it. They nod with pity or suspicion, offer condolences that feel more like accusations.
“Such a tragedy.” “So young.” “These things happen.”
Except I don’t believe that for a second. Not when the same men who sent flowers to the funeral spent the next week making quiet phone calls. Not when my uncle started locking his office every night, flinching at every news report about Russians and Bratva money moving through the art world.
I touch the pocket of my blazer, feeling the sharp edges of the old photographs hidden inside. Enzo, laughing with a stranger sporting a silver ring. I’d memorized the emblem, traced it onto the backs of receipts and napkins, looking for meaning. I’d searched every face at these events for a glimpse of the man in the picture, but so far, nothing. Tonight, I hope, will be different.
A flurry of new arrivals pulls me back into the present. Caterers wheel in carts of delicate hors d’oeuvres, and the security team runs another sweep of the floor, radios crackling. Clara’s already charmed the florist into giving her an extra boutonnière for her hair, and she winks at me as she pins it behind her ear.
“Promise me you’ll come out for at least one glass of wine,” she says. “Not the cheap stuff they keep in the back.”
“If I’m not chasing Mr. Grayson’s next meltdown, maybe,” I say, letting myself relax for a heartbeat. She beams.
By four o’clock, my shoes pinch and the back of my neck is damp with stress. The exhibits shine under the lights, every edge crisp, every surface immaculate. My hands ache from polishing glass, but I can’t help checking everything one more time.
When the doors finally open, the first guests filter through in a cloud of chatter, silk, and aftershave. The low hum of anticipation threads through the hall, raising the tiny hairs on my arms.
I take my spot near the back wall, clipboard in hand, half shadowed by a massive marble bust. From here, I can watch the crowd without being watched myself. Collectors drift from piece to piece, murmuring their judgments. A handful of men in crisp suits—Russian, if I had to guess—stand near the abstract canvases, their laughter too quiet, eyes too sharp.
I pretend to make notes, but really I’m scanning the faces, searching for anyone with a silver ring, anyone whose name makes the air go cold. The deeper the night gets, the more I sense it: secrets moving just beneath the surface, too subtle for most people to notice.
Beside me, Clara returns with a glass of champagne, pressing it into my hand. “For luck,” she says. “Don’t say you never have any fun.”
I take a sip, grateful for the excuse to linger. Every muscle in my body is drawn tight, but I force myself to smile as guests drift past. Somewhere in this room, I think, is the answer to what happened to Enzo. Tonight, I’m Isabella Rossi, invisible, untouchable, but watching every move.
If I’m lucky, the truth will finally show its face.
By the time the clock strikes seven, the gallery has transformed. Everywhere I look, there’s silk and polished leather, diamonds winking under soft golden light.
The clink of glasses and the brush of low voices fill every corner; each conversation carries a current I can’t quite catch, only feel. People drift through the halls, their laughter edged with calculation.
Clara materializes at my side, pressing another glass into my hand, her cheeks flushed with excitement. “You’ll regret it if you don’t at least pretend to enjoy yourself, Izzy,” she whispers, her eyes already tracking the nearest waiter for more canapés.
I manage a tight smile, but the knot in my chest only winds tighter. I can’t shake the feeling that every surface—every glittering statue, every pristine plaque—hides something rotten underneath.
I scan the crowd. Russian, Italian, American, old money and new. Faces I’ve seen at half a dozen events, all of them on their best behavior. It’s the kind of night where a fortune can change hands with a nod, where an insult might mean something sharp later, in a back room or on a dark road.
The glass is cool in my palm. I try to focus on the taste—crisp, a little dry—but I can’t settle. My eyes keep drifting to the corners, hunting for that flash of silver, the emblem I memorized from Enzo’s photos. A dozen rings glint in the light, but none of them are right.
“Earth to Isabella,” Clara murmurs, nudging me with her elbow. “You’re somewhere else entirely tonight. Anyone I should be worried about?”
I shake my head, half laughing. “Only my own nerves.”
She arches a brow, unconvinced. “Well, your secret’s safe with me.” Then, quieter, “Let yourself have a little fun, Izzy. You look like you’re waiting for a firing squad, not a party.”
Before I can answer, a familiar voice floats over the crowd. Mr. Grayson, calling for my help near the west exhibit. I slip away, glad for the excuse, but even as I cross the room, I keep scanning faces.
Every time a tall man turns, my heart jumps, only to fall flat again when I see the wrong profile, the wrong hands, the wrong ring.
I’m not sure when I spot him, only that the world seems to slow around the edges when I do. He stands in a shadowy alcove near the sculpture garden, half turned toward the wall, a glass of amber whiskey dangling from long fingers. His suit is black, perfectly cut, but there’s nothing delicate about his shape; broad shoulders, sharp jaw, hair slicked back carelessly.
