Page 130 of The Art of Ruin

I exhale softly through my nose. “I hate that you know me so well.”

“You love it.”

Unfortunately, she’s right about that too.

By the time we leave the penthouse, Manhattan is glowing under winter rain, the streets slick with reflected gold and red from traffic lights and storefront displays that still haven’t entirely let go of January sales.

Elena spends most of the drive in the back of the SUV on speakerphone with Rossi, reminding him that keeping Letty overnight does not mean feeding her unlimited sugar simply because she has “big eyes and excellent negotiation skills.”

“I never said unlimited,” Rossi argues, his deep voice echoing.

“You gave her espresso ice cream last week.”

Nico, who is driving us, sniggers, earning himself a headshake from Izzy, which just makes him smile wider, grab her hand, and kiss her knuckles. My friend melts into him and it makes me think of Adriano. The kiss we shared at New Year’s should be a distant memory, but it lives rent-free in my brain and plays every night on repeat.

“That was an accident,” Rossi defends, pulling me out of my thoughts.

“She was awake until midnight.” Elena throws her hands up in true Italian flair.

“She had fascinating opinions about dinosaurs.”

Elena presses a hand dramatically to her forehead. “You see what I live with?”

Rossi doesn’t even sound offended. “You adore me, woman.”

“Unfortunately.”

In front of me, Isabella snorts softly into her champagne-colored shawl before leaning closer. “Adriano’s meeting us there, by the way. Last-minute call with investors.”

Which shouldn’t send a strange ripple of awareness through me, but it does. I turn my attention toward the rain-streaked window before anyone can notice.

The ballroomof the hotel where the Charity Gala is being held glows gold. That’s the first thing I notice when we walk in. Light spills from enormous chandeliers overhead, catching against crystal glasses and polished marble. Women draped in elegant gowns that probably cost more than my university tuition. A string quartet plays somewhere near the back of the room, soft enough not to overpower conversation, while servers weave expertly through clusters of guests carrying champagne and tiny, impossibly pretty appetizers. Elena disappears in a whirlwind when she sees that the event is serving a seafood pasta appetizer with parmesan cheese. Her outrage makes me smile.

ISM events always feel slightly surreal to me. This is the second one I’ve been to; the first was last year after Izzy and Nico got engaged.

It’s not the money that’s surreal. That was something I’d become used to in my former life, but because of the genuine warmth.

For a company run by men raised inside violence, there’s something strangely genuine about the atmosphere they create. Employees move easily around the brothers rather than fearfully, conversation is relaxed, and the laughter is real. There are photographs displayed near the stage of charity projects and community programs funded through ISM initiatives. Scholarship recipients smiling awkwardly beside oversized checks, restoration projects, shelters, education grants.

These events have a true purpose; they aren’t held for the sake of the wealthy who attend and donate. It’s not performative; it’s real.

It matters more than I think people realize.

“Breathe,” Isabella murmurs beside me.

“I am breathing.”

“Just about.”

I shoot her a look just as Nico appears at her side, his attention catching on her instantly in that quiet, unwavering way that always makes me feel like I’m accidentally witnessing something intimate.

His hand settles automatically at her waist. “Sorry I disappeared, but Eddie is here with Laney.”

“Oh my God, let’s go. I love Eddie, and Laney is so cool.”

Nico gives Izzy a pained look. “Don’t make me murder my best friend in public, Bella.”

“Ah, don’t be jealous, baby. You know I only have eyes for you.”