“I’ll be Isabella,” I said finally. “Some minor cousin of yours no one actually cares about.”
Emilia’s lips twitched. “I have no minor cousins, but… that will work,piccola. Now let’s get you dressed.”
Emilia openedher enormous wardrobe and pulled out a gown—dark gray silk, not a hint of actual color, simple but well-made, the kind of thing that would blend in and disappear at the same time.
I sighed. She lifted a brow.
“The theme is black and gold. You can’t sneak into a mourning ball looking likethat.” She ran her sharp eyes over my fitted pants and leather jacket. “Hunt the city in whatever you want, but tonight you’ll be sipping blood-wine with the Dynasty’s finest. No cousin of mine would ever appear at such an esteemed gathering looking less than royal.”
“I’d rather face a nest of feral Strigoi,” I muttered, but Isnatched the dress from her and ducked behind the screen, grumbling to myself the entire time.
An hour later—dressed, with a heavy gold chain around my throat where Dante’s bite had once marked my skin—my transformation was complete. Emilia rested her hands on my shoulders, meeting my gaze in the mirror with a pleased smile.
“Remember,” she reminded me softly. “You’re not there to draw attention. There will always be someone watching, but even the Draconi tend to ignore harmless girls.”
“I’m not harmless,” I said, bristling, even though she didn’t mean it as an insult.
“Oh, I know.” Her grip tightened, just a fraction. “But do try to pretend, Emberline. If only for one night.”
“Thank you,” I offered. “For helping me.Again.”
She waved a hand. “I am calling in one of my favors tonight. Bring me something interesting from Giovanni’s study, and we’ll check off one of your debts. I can’t have you digging too deep a hole now, can I?”
Sure.
No pressure.
8
EMBERLINE
Our family palazzo—Giovanni’s, now—had never looked more beautiful.
Jealous fury made me want to rip the stone façade off with my bare hands, especially the black swans I’d once been so proud of. No more. Now, anything that had to do with my family name made me sick; my uncle had corrupted everything he’d touched.
The main hall blazed with light, chandeliers dripping crystal, candles flaming in every sconce. Rich fabrics hung from the walls, black and gold swags framing faded tapestries that showcased the DiRavello line’s illustrious history of opulent wealth—all carefully edited to highlight our power and nobility, of course.
Most of the guests were gathered around a massive portrait that dominated the far wall.
Me.
Or rather, the version of me Giovanni wanted the world to remember. The artist had given me softer eyes, fuller lips, and a demure tilt of the head. My hair spilled around my shoulders like a dark waterfall. I wore a midnight-blue gown, cut to showcase my shoulders and throat, my hands folded in my lap.
A black ribbon was painted around my throat.
The mark of Death.
“Tragic, isn’t it?” The woman beside me sighed, fanningherself furiously, pointed nails glinting dangerously. “Gone so young. Giovanni is so deep in mourning, he hasn’t even taken meetings.”
More like he was using the free time to expand his nefarious influence, but sure,let her think the bastard had a heart of gold.
I smiled at her—black satin gown, dripping jewels, the corners of her mouth already stained red from blood-wine. I recognized her vaguely as a Demente, which meant she was sharper than she appeared.
“Very,” I said, arranging my features into appropriate melancholy. “Such a tragic loss.”
“She was wild, you know,” the woman confided, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret instead of repeating gossip I could have recited in my sleep. “Such a temper. For a while, we thought Giovanni would never marry her off. Then, poof.” She fluttered her fingers. “Dominico wedding, Dominico scandal, Dominico tragedy. At least we have plenty to gossip about this summer; otherwise, life would be so dreadfully dull.”
Okay, maybe not as sharp as I’d first thought. I made a sympathetic sound.
