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"Ah, then I'll save the next dance for you," he promises with a wink before disappearing into the swirl of dancers.
I move on, every sense on high alert. The weight at my thigh is a constant reminder of the stakes tonight. It’s the mission and my reputation on the line tonight, and I'm here all alone. With every assured stride, I feel the fabric of my skirt caress the secret I carry in my garter, silk against steel.
Then I see him—Dario Marchetti—commanding the room from afar, his back straight as a rapier. I can tell it's him, despite the mask. His hair, a perfect mess.
His tightly tailored suit, hugging every muscle like it was stitched straight on to him. He's tall, towering over the other puny men. Our eyes lock and it's his steel-gray eyes, and for a heartbeat, we're the only two souls in this grand masquerade.
A woman, dressed in iridescent blue taffeta set off by the most exquisite mask adorned with peacock feathers, comes up to him and gently trails her fingers up his arm, while whispering something in his ear.
He turns his gaze away from me and gives her a polite smile and a nod, bending closer to hear what she has to say. He opens his mouth, and I can’t hear it from across the room, but I know he’s laughing.
I wonder if he means it, or if he’s being polite.
Suddenly, I feel self-conscious, unnerved. I observe the dazzling women surrounding him, vying for his attention and smoothen the ruffles in this dress. What was I thinking?
Dressing in this low-cut, no-back, lace bodice? Dario Marchetti has probably seen a thousand women just like me, and I came running without a second thought at the first sign of interest he showed me.
I want to turn tail. Perhaps he was only being polite by inviting me here? After all, wasn’t he the one whose car toppled mine over the Tarpeian Rock?
If I meant anything more to him, he would have called me. He found my address. Couldn’t he have found my number too?
The woman who stole his attention turns away and the world around us fades as his gaze meets mine again. His eyes sweep across my figure, resting on the dip of my hips, the curve of my breasts, and return to my mask.
He appreciates what I’m wearing, I can tell. I almost tremble with desire, and fear that he can see me shudder.
I feel powerful and invincible from him noticing me like this. I certainly don’t want Dario Marchetti to know just how much I wish for him to want me.
But I wonder if it’s all in my head; this desire I see in his eyes. He invited me. He can see me standing here, alone. So why isn’t he coming over to welcome me? My training kicks in.
I still my pulse and lower my breathing rate. With a calm mind I assess the situation. Through the slits in his domino mask I can see that his brows are furrowed in confusion.
Something is wrong. And then it hits me: he’s surprised to see me here.
Which can mean just one thing.
He didn’t invite me.
Then who did?
The shock makes my heart skip a beat. These are suddenly treacherous waters. Someone else here knew where to find me and sent me that invite. Marco? Would he do that without Dario’s knowledge?
A puzzle I need to solve, quickly.
With shaky knees, feeling like a fool, I turn away from Dario Marchetti, leaving him to the women circling like birds of prey. Women he probably did invite. My cheeks flush.
I make my way over to the designated bar area, needing a drink before I decide what to do next. My silly infatuation has put me in a compromising position. It’s best to get out before things go south.
Chapter 6
Veiled Alliances
Dario
The masquerade ball is a spectacle of decadence where the elite and the underworld intermingle for a single night of excess. I stand beside my father, The Don Marchetti, at the head of our palazzo's grand hall.
Our domain is adorned with ostentatious chandeliers and the walls glitter with gold leaves. The murmur of conversation is a symphony to ambition and desire, each guest speaking with those who they know can offer them something in return.
"Buona sera," – Good evening – I greet another silk-gowned heiress with a respectful nod and a kiss on each cheek, the mask upon my face a mere nod to tradition rather than any true guise.
