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Agostino nods with a smirk and sits back.
Behind us, cars begin to honk. My driver opens the door for Romola while Agostino and I help ourselves out.
The cool night air brushes against my face like a whispered secret, like it knows what we’re here for. I’m not a man without faith, and I feel certain the gods stand with me.
Agostino, ever the protective father, aids Romola out of the car, something in his gaze promising to keep her safe. I square my shoulders and link my arm through Romola’s while Agostino takes her other. I notice Romola shudder, and for some reason, her fear excites me.
Is there anything worth enjoying in life without a little danger involved? In my books, impossible.
I whisper a few last-minute instructions in their direction. “If it gets too close, pretend to be drunk, to feel faint, or knock over a table. Use distraction as your tool, it will be your only weapon once we’re inside."
We stride up the marble steps, the grand oak doors already swung open, flanked on both ends by beautiful hostesses in plunging necklines and sheer dresses.
We enter the grand ballroom, and the scene before us is a stunning display of extravagance. Crystal chandeliers cast a glittery glow over the swirling mass of elegantly dressed guests, their laughter and conversation mingling with the soft strains of the string quartet playing in the alcove.
I watch as Romola's eyes widen at the sight of ice sculptures towering amongst the guests, chilled vodka and champagne keeping their surfaces frosted.
"Amazing, isn't it?" I remark.
Romola nods, speechless, as she takes in the scene before her. "I've never seen anything like this," she admits, clasping her clutch to her chest.
For a moment, I, too, allow myself to be swept up in the beauty of it all.
But then the reality of our purpose here comes crashing back when I notice a familiar figure heading our way.
"Eyes on me," I murmur to Romola and Agostino as we make our way through the enchanting crowd and to the bar.
"Let's get a drink, blend in, and I can show you who’s who,” I suggest, trying to make my voice heard over the music.
At the antique mahogany bar, we slide onto three tall barstools with its intricate inlay work. I glance around us to see if we were perhaps recognized or followed.
"Three glasses of Prosecco, please," I tell the bartender, maintaining eye contact as he nods and begins to pour the sparkling wine. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, a mixture of excitement and trepidation coursing through my veins.
I’ve never been closer than I have today to completing my Heart of Italy.
The woman with the cascading black hair and stunning red gown is making her way towards us, her every step oozing confidence and power.
"Who is that?" Romola whispers, her own gaze fixated on the approaching woman.
"Her name is Isabella," I reply, my voice tight. "She's Fiero's cousin - and she's dangerous."
"Then what do we do?" Agostino asks, his grip on his glass tightening.
"Stay calm," I instruct, forcing myself to sound more confident than I feel. "Let me handle her."
Isabella reaches the bar, her piercing eyes never leaving mine. My hands begin to feel clammy, and I can only trust that our disguises will hold up to the test.
Her shoulder brushed against my elbow. I don’t want to let on that I know her, so I don’t turn away.
I relax, thinking that she’s about to walk past me, but then she tilts her head and looks up at me.
“Hello, handsome,” she purrs.
“It’s Roberto to you,” I snap back, changing my voice to a flat, emotionless one, wanting to sound cold and disinterested.
Most of the men here would eat out of her hand. I need her to believe I don’t really know who she is, that I’m just a random acquaintance.
I can feel her assessing me. With a practiced smile, I turn to face her.
