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My presence draws reverent glances from those in attendance. They flock to me like moths to a flame, each wanting a share of the power I command. With gentle touches and soft murmurs, they kiss my cheeks and admire the beautiful gardens surrounding us.
"Ah, Fiero! You truly are a man of great taste," one guest exclaims as he gazes upon the roses, their petals as red as blood, illuminated by the tall candle towers around them.
"Indeed," another adds, "these roses couldn’t have been easy to breed."
“I wouldn’t know,” I offer an explanation. We have excellent gardeners, and I refrain from interfering in matters I know little about.”
I offer polite smiles as I make my rounds, but their praises wash over me like rain on stone. What does it matter if these people adore the landscape when true excitement eludes me?
I’m honestly sick of these things. Back in the day, I loved the parties. Now, I feel lonelier and lonelier.
I pick up a glass of champagne from a scantily clad woman with feathered underwear floating gracefully through the crowd, balancing a silver tray laden with crystal glasses.
I notice men flick their gaze over her enchanting, sensual movements, but I find no allure in such empty pleasures.
A live band plays old-school music, their melodies weaving an intricate tapestry of sound that fills the very air with the promise of an exciting night. Fairy lights shimmer like tiny stars against the twilight sky, strung over trees, casting a magical glow on the surroundings. Above us all, a huge canopy stretches out like a protective embrace, shielding us from the possibility of rain.
"Would you care for a drink, Fiero?" a woman whose name I don’t recall asks, her voice sultry and inviting, as she notices my empty glass of champagne.
"Thank you," I reply, accepting a glass of rich red wine. The liquid is sweet and warm on my tongue, but it does little to ignite the spark of life within me. Instead, I feel as though I am merely going through the motions, performing the role expected of me by those who know me only as the powerful Fiero Cremaschi.
As the night wears on, I find myself yearning for something more, something beyond the superficial pleasures that seem to satisfy everyone else. The feeling is like a dull ache in my chest, an unrelenting reminder of what my life has become: a never-ending cycle of parties and empty exchanges with those who seek only to benefit from my position.
I wonder, apart from my mafioso, if I truly have a person who is loyal to me out of love.
I resign myself to another disappointing night.
The crowd grows denser, the laughter louder, and I make my way through the sea of eager faces. My hand is sore from the countless hands I've shaken, and my cheeks ache from forced smiles. The same praises echo in my ears, the same meaningless words meant to curry favor with me.
"Signor Fiero, your parties are always so magnificent!"
"Your taste is impeccable, truly the best of the best."
"Thank you for inviting us. This is a night we'll never forget."
I nod, acknowledging their compliments with feigned gratitude, secretly wishing for something more than this shallow display of loyalty. My gaze drifts around the venue, searching for anything that might spark my interest.
"Excuse me," I say, extracting myself from yet another conversation about business prospects and mutual acquaintances. My eyes scan the area, longing for a distraction, something or someone to break the monotony.
And then I see a woman… It's her.
Impossible.
I never thought I’d see her again. Is it her? It can’t be. But even from a distance, those eyes shine in the night like a cat’s—almost feral.
She sits near the edge of the festivities, her silver gown shimmering under the fairy lights that dance across the garden. Her long, brunette hair cascades in curls right down her neck, framing her delicate face. She’s swimming in silver, a long necklace, rings, and bracelets.
That gown - it’s meant to be revered. It’s cut at the sleeves, with beautiful mesh down her arms. I can’t help but gaze at her neck; the cut is so low that it tantalizes my every sense.
I walked closer, my heart racing with every step. I dreamt of our dance, and I dreamt of more. These last two nights, I thought it would only ever remain a dance. I didn’t even know her full name, and I never even saw her full face.
As I inch closer, I realize it’s the same grey. Her eyes. They hold a world in them. It’s her. It’s her!
The world around me fades away as it dawns on me that there’s no way I could be mistaken. Despite all the odds, I found Romola.
She's reading fortunes, her gaze focused on a crystal ball cradled in a holder on her table. Her lips move softly as she whispers prophecies to her captivated audience, a couple who hang on to her every word.
A surge of excitement courses through me. How did fate manage to bring her back into my life again? This woman, who seemed so out of place at the masquerade, now holds the key to breaking free from the shackles of boredom that have bound me tonight.
