The city was a beautiful monster, its heart pumping with gold and shadows. Tonight, that heart beat within the walls of the Moretti Estate, a fortress of glass and marble perched atop the highest peak, looking down on the lesser gods and mortals below. Inside, the grand ballroom was an ocean of gilded masks and whispered lies, where champagne flowed as freely as deceit and the music of a string quartet barely concealed the predatory hum of power. Every guest was a player in a game they barely understood, their laughter a fragile shield against the darkness that paid for their couture and diamonds. Into this elegant battlefield, Serena Vale walked not as a guest, but as a ghost cloaked in vengeance. Her gown, the color of spilled wine, was a masterpiece of seduction and strategy, clinging to her curves like a second skin, its back cut daringly low to expose the smooth expanse of her sun-kissed skin, the slit on her thigh a silent promise of danger. A simple mask of black velvet and raven feathers obscured her eyes, but it could not hide the storm of resolve within them. She was a weapon disguised as a temptation, and beneath the silken whisper of her dress, strapped to her thigh, rested a cold, slender stiletto blade. It was a tangible piece of the promise she'd made to her brother, Marco, on the night she found him lifeless, his final breath stolen by the city's most notorious phantom. They called him Damiano Moretti, the King, a name spoken only in hushed tones in the safest of rooms. He was a myth, a billionaire titan by day and the unseen emperor of the criminal underworld by night. No public photos of him existed, and his privacy was protected by a legion of loyal soldiers and a river of blood. Serena's one clue, pried from the lips of a dying informant, was that the devil himself would be here tonight, hidden behind a mask just like everyone else. And she would find him.
Of course Damiano had seen her when she entered, although she would not know it. He stood on the periphery of the main floor, by the wide balcony offering a god's-eye view of his whole domain. His own mask was a shard of obsidian, stark and severe, its sharp lines doing nothing to soften the lethal intensity of his presence. He was a pillar of stillness in the swirling chaos of the party, a black hole that drew all light and attention towards it without effort. Men always gave him a wide berth instead of facing him, their instincts screaming with a warning their intellects couldn't comprehend, while women watched him in a mix of terror and that intoxicating curiosity. But Damiano swept aside all of these things. Only the woman in red narrowed his entire world that was, just a moment ago, an unbearable assembly of pawns and sycophants. She walked like a panther moving slowly and with amazing confidence, almost bordering on arrogance. It was not, however, the dress that held him captive as it was designed to captivate; it was her energy. She was not looking around with wide-eyed wonder or nervous ambition; instead, she scanned the room with the tiny, sharp focus of a hunter, her chin high and her very posture the declaration of war. He felt the muscle instinctively tighten in his gut, a possessive fire that had long since regressed to hibernation. She was not prey; she was a challenge. And as she glided through the crowd, her masked eyes sweeping past him without a flicker of recognition, he knew he would not allow her to remain a stranger. With a silent, deliberate motion, he pushed away from the balcony, the shadows clinging to his tailored black suit as he moved to intercept his fate.
They converged on the actual ballroom, a clash of purpose and want sending a quiet shockwave through the air. Music was fading somewhere distant to a hum as Damiano stepped directly in front of the girl, blocking her way. His sheer size was imposing, a wall of muscle and bespoke Italian silk, and he smelled of expensive whiskey, rare cigars, and something far more dangerous-gunpowder and absolute control. "You look as if you're looking for something," he said with a low, gravelly timber that vibrated through her-accented with the lyrical cadence of the Old Country, the type of voice that was used to issue commands which were never questioned. Serena's heart gave a painful lurch, a traitorous flutter against her ribs, but her expression remained one of cool, calculated indifference. "Perhaps I was searching for a worthy dance partner," she replied, her tone laced with a honeyed challenge. "But the night is still young." A slow, predatory smirk touched his lips, visible even beneath the mask. "Your search is over." He extended a gloved hand, not as a question, but as a declaration. Her mind screamed at her to refuse it, walk away, find a less direct path to her goal. But as his gaze locked with hers, she saw it-peeking just above the crisp white collar of his shirt, a sliver of ink on his skin. A serpent, coiled and biting its own tail. The Ouroboros. The exact design Marco had sketched in his journal, a symbol he'd discovered was the secret mark of the man who ruled the Moretti Empire. It was him. A cold, electrifying thrill shot through her. This was it. She placed her hand in his, and the moment his leather-clad fingers closed around hers, a jolt of pure, unadulterated heat traveled up her arm, searing through her resolve. He pulled her against him, his other hand splaying possessively on the bare skin of her lower back. Their bodies fit together with a startling, unnerving perfection. As he led her in a slow, hypnotic waltz, she performed her own deadly dance, her fingers deftly, invisibly, planting a microscopic tracker on the underside of his lapel. "A mask can't hide the fire in your eyes," he murmured, his lips dangerously close to her ear. "Tell me what you really want, mia bella." She leaned in, her own lips brushing the shell of his ear as she whispered back, "If I told you, it would ruin the surprise." He dipped her low, a wickedly sensual move that stole her breath. A terrifying abandon engulfed her for a second as he held her hello cooly in the glare of his silver eyes burning into hers with an almost supernatural glow. And then he kissed her. It was no gentle kiss; it was branding. A bruising, possessive claim that tasted of power and sin, a kiss that devoured her protests and rekindled feelings in her that she thought had died away along with her brother. She kissed him back, using all that she could muster—her rage, her grief, and her terrifying, unwanted desire. This was her weapon: to make him want her, to make him trust her, and then to set his world ablaze from the inside out.
With the unmistakable, dull crack of a suppressed firearm, the spell was shattered. Chaos reigned in the blink of an eye. Guests screamed against the backdrop of the music, rushing to safety, their masks of civility cracking open to reveal the raw, primal fear beneath. A hail of bullets roared through the air, and one of the magnificent crystal chandeliers exploded overhead, drenching the revelers in a deadly rain of glass and gold. In the split second between one breath and the next, Damiano's body became a shield. He spun, forcing Serena back behind a thick marble pillar, entirely covering her with his form, his chest's hard planes pressing her hard against the cold stone. Overpowering was the scent of him, the heat of him. "Stay down," he ordered in a voice now low and deadly as he pulled out a sleek black handgun from a holster hidden in the small of his back. His movements were fluid, economic--the practiced movements of a man for whom violence was a native language. The terrible irony spun through Serena's mind. The monster she had come to kill protected her. Chaos became her opportunity, a divine gift for her mission. She could pull out her stiletto, plunge it into his side, and end it all right here. But as her hand began to move toward her thigh, another barrage of shots came close, as if they had been fired for her. Sorcerous; Damiano really did pull her in two breathtaking moves, firing twice more into the panicked crowd. Two men in black tactical gear jaws crashed on the ground. He was not a reckless brawler; more like a lethal death machine. But the real blow that froze her blood came from one of the approaching assailants. He pointed not at Damiano but directly at her. Forget the Don! Get the girl! The boss wants Serena Vale alive! A chilling wave went over her. They knew her name. This was not an attack on the Moretti Empire. It was an attack on her. The hunter had now become hunted. Damiano slowly turned his head, and the silver eyes once burning with passion were now agonizingly cold with lucidity. The hand that had held her with such possessive heat now gripped her arm in a steel-like arachnoid grasp. He flicked a glance between the armed men converging on them and her, and the faintest and most dangerous smirk crept onto his lips. "Serena Vale," he said, tasting her name as if it were some rare poison. "It seems my rather boring party has just become infinitely more interesting."