But the moment was broken.
From the window, a shadow moved—tall and still.
A man.
He stood in the courtyard below, half-shrouded in moonlight. His posture was unnervingly calm, as if he had always belonged there, as if he had been waiting.
His eyes—dark, piercing, otherworldly—locked onto mine. My breath hitched.
I froze.
His gaze held power. Not charm, not warmth, but something colder… something ancient. I felt the pull of it like a string beneath my ribs being drawn tighter with each second. I couldn’t look away.
A chill slithered up my spine.
I wanted to resist. To step away. To be loyal to Tomaso.
But something about the man below ignited a hunger insideme… the kind that lives in dreams and danger, a curiosity edged in terror.
Yet beneath the thrill, another whisper crept in—Francesco’s curse.
His voice etched into my memory—Your lies will never go unpunished.
Was this the beginning of that punishment?
I didn’t know who the stranger was. I didn’t know what he wanted.
But I knew—deep in my bones—that if I crossed paths with him…
Nothing in my life would ever be the same again.
And I was terrified.
Chapter 3
Alina
Iawoke the following morning with a smile tugging at my lips and cheer blooming in my chest.
I would attend Pietro Costa’s masquerade ball tonight—an evening draped in mystery, masked in decadence, whispered about in the corners of Florence’s most exclusive salons.
I stretched languidly beneath my linen sheets, letting the sunlight span across my skin like warm honey. Slipping into my robe, I tiptoed across the marble floor and crept into Mammina’s chamber.
Her armoire stood tall, a treasure chest of elegance and power. I opened it carefully, inhaling the soft scent of rosewater and silk.
Her gowns were all custom-made, stitched by Florence’s finest hands. And since we shared nearly the same frame, I knew exactly what I was searching for.
A pale gown—white silk, so soft it shimmered like moonlight. It whispered luxury and danger all at once. I pressed it to my chest, heart fluttering, and quietly carried it to my armoire, tucking it safely away.
I descended the spiral staircase, the iron railing cool beneath my fingertips, and stepped into the dining room, where the morning feast was being served.
“Good morning, Papa,” I said sweetly, kissing the edge of his grizzled jaw.
He grunted, his eyes unmoving behind the crinkle of his news sheet.
“Good morning, Mammina,” I offered, rounding the table to kiss her gently powdered cheek.
“Good morning, Fragolina,” she said with a soft smile, using her favorite pet name for me—little strawberry. The sound of it wrapped around me like a gentle scarf, familiar and sweet.
