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Ry grinned. “Oh, she’s beautiful. I’m driving her first.” He waggled his eyebrows. “My new baby is in the garage.”
If I’d thought the night before was gorgeous, the morning had stepped it up to a whole other level. The sun had risen over the Mediterranean, and although I’d seen a hundred sunrises before, it was something special knowing we were on the opposite side of the world. I’d drunk my tea in silence—speechlessness, actually. I’d looked around at the city below us, and I was lost for words.
But the ballroom had me awestruck. It was elegance personified. Marble columns supported the towering limewashed arched ceilings. Intricate crystal chandeliers hung from the beams, scattering warm light over the expansive room. Every column, beam, and ornately carved medallion was inlaid with gold leaf. A sense of luxury permeated every corner of the ballroom.
Between the soaring arches of the ceiling, Renaissance frescos adorned the walls. They were a hundred and fifty years old, and each one was a masterpiece. The brushstrokes and the colours were incredible. There was no AI to tweak the images, no digital enhancements to clean up the edges. These murals were hand drawn and took years to complete. I could imagine the artists standing on top of scaffolding, perfecting each tiny stroke, correcting and recorrecting each piece until they were finished. The artists would have been up there for years, dealing with the complexities of heat and cold, light and dark, and the only technology they had to aid their work were brushes, scaffolds, and candles. It was inspiring.
“They’re remarkable,” Flynn murmured in my earpiece that was hidden by the curls tucked over my shoulder. “I wish I could see them for real.”
I wished Flynn was in here with us too, but like I’d told him last night, I needed him watching our video feeds and running facial recognition software in case we missed spotting the face of the Grande Banque Unie. Tristan’s and my only aim for the night was to engage Felipe Moragreiga in conversation. To distract him for just a moment.
“It’s indescribable,” I murmured, half to Tristan and half to Flynn.
My mic was disguised by the diamond choker I wore, and my camera was fitted into the diamante clip in my hair. My intricate Swarovski crystal mask was a perfect match to my jewellery and my red Elie Saab gown. My whole getup—including the technology that we were about to deploy—was moreMission Impossibleor007than real life, but apparently that was my life now.
“Sorry to rain on your parade, but we’ve got a limited timeframe to do this,” Ezra whispered apologetically.
He was right. I needed to get my head in the game, but ever since coming down those stairs in the villa to four men gazing up at me watching my every step, I’d been floating on air.
“We’ll try to come back,” Tristan promised. He was fitted with an earpiece too, his camera hidden in the top pocket of his tuxedo, and his throat mic was tucked safely under his shirt. Tristan’s mask was almost bronze, the delicate patterns a contrast to the masculinity he was oozing. “Let’s get a drink and mingle.”
With a hand resting on the small of my back, he guided us through the upper-class echelons of Europe. I’d already seen a movie star or two as well as a few sports stars—a Formula One driver and a soccer player and their entourages. It was no wonder the casino had taken on extra security for the night; it was the perfect way for Ezra to sneak in under the radar.
Crystal glasses clinked together, the sound of money talking. The hum of voices was reserved, the boredom of old money only showing a glimmer of excitement when they came across a famous face. The spark of excitement it caused in the volume of conversation sent a frisson of electricity through the crowd and set my heart to thrumming. It was beating hard, rising in cadence with the string quartet tucked onto the stage as they reached the crescendo of the piece they were playing.
I looked in their direction, spotting Ezra instantly. Even in a suit designed to blend into the furniture, he stood out like a beacon. The beauty of Baie de Roquebrune at his back and the glittering lights of the city surrounding it were no match for him.
The Villa La Vigie was across the bay, and as ridiculous as it sounded, I wanted to be back there. The opulence, the money—none of it was me. None of it wasus. I wanted to get back to the villa and watch the sun come up after I’d stripped my guys naked and rode them until we were hot and sweaty.
All of them.
Tristan closed his hand over mine, slipping in closer to me. I leaned in, grateful for his warmth at my side. My gown was incredible, but there wasn’t much of it. Even with the heaters in the ballroom set to toasty, my skin was prickling with the cold. Coming from a sub-tropical summer, the European winter, no matter how mild it was, still required a fuck tonne of adjusting. The layer of silk that barely covered me wasn’t doing much to help.
Ry circled the room, holding a tray of champagne flutes aloft as he moved.
“Any sign?” Ezra asked, his disembodied voice a deep whisper in our earpieces.
“Not yet,” Flynn responded. “But we’ve still got time. He’s not due to make the speech for another hour yet.”
Minutes ticked by as Tristan and I made our way around the room, exchanging pleasantries with Europe’s socialites.
A beautiful woman eyed me up and down, smiling politely as we neared. “Your dress is stunning,” she gushed, holding her delicate hand out. “Benedikte, pleased to meet you.”
I shook her hand, her grasp surprisingly firm compared to the some of the people who’d shaken my hand that night. “Zali, and the pleasure is all mine. This is my partner, Tristan.”
They shook, and she exclaimed, “You’re Australian! My boyfriend, Nikolai, and I are moving there soon to study.”
“We are. Where are you moving to?” Tristan asked just as Flynn’s voice came through my earpiece.
“Nikolai is Count Nikolai of Denmark. He’s literal royalty. Benedikte is his girlfriend.”
“Sydney. We have been accepted into the University of Technology.”
“UTS is one of Australia’s best universities,” Tristan responded with a smile, adding, “And Sydney is one of our most beautiful cities.”
We spoke for a few minutes longer before Benedikte excused herself, and Ry swept past us, gesturing to his right at the couple standing nearby. He offered us glasses of champagne as he whispered, “Train your camera on the white tux for me. I think that’s him, but I need Flynn to get another look.”
I couldn’t see more than the man’s shoulder, but the woman he was with was the picture of elegance. In a glittering emerald evening gown with long chiffon sleeves and a plunging neckline, she was beautiful. She could easily be mistaken for his daughter, but Moragreiga’s type was early twenties and gorgeous—he was the Leo di Caprio of banking, never dating anyone over twenty-five.
