The grand suite of The Blue Diamond Hotel smelled of rosewater and starched linen, the heavy velvet curtains drawn against the evening chill. Gia stood before the gilded mirror, her reflection fractured by the antique glass. The emerald gown—chosen by Omri's staff, not her—hugged her waist like a second skin, the satin whispering against her thighs as she shifted.
Her fingers trembled as they grazed the zipper at her back. Almost there. The metal teeth caught halfway up her spine, stubborn as Alvan's silences. She tugged, hissed when the fabric pinched her skin.
Behind her, Alvan adjusted his cufflinks in the mirror's reflection, his tuxedo a study in monochrome severity. The black fabric stretched across his shoulders as he rolled his neck, the motion deliberate, controlled. He hadn't spoken since they'd entered, though his gaze kept snagging on her bare shoulders and the tattoo that was barely covered by her dress.
Gia exhaled through her nose. Pride warred with practicality.
"Alvan."
His hands stilled.
"I need—" The words clung to her throat. "Help. With the zipper."
A beat. Two. The clock on the mantel ticked like a bomb.
Then—the whisper of polished shoes on carpet.
She turned, presenting her back, her pulse fluttering at the base of her neck. His breath warmed her skin before his fingers did, the calloused pads brushing the knobs of her spine. The zipper slid up with agonizing slowness, his knuckles grazing the dimples above her hips.
"You're shaking," he murmured.
From cold, she almost said. But the lie curdled on her tongue when his thumb pressed into the tense muscle near her shoulder blade. A quiet noise escaped her—half sigh, half surrender.
Alvan froze.
In the mirror, their eyes locked. His pupils were blown wide, his lips parted just enough to reveal the edge of his teeth. The air between them thickened, charged like the moment before lightning strikes.
Then—
"You look..." His voice roughened.
Gia arched a brow.
"Like you're dressed for war."
She snorted, twisting to face him fully. The gown's slit revealed a flash of thigh as she stepped closer. "Isn't that what these galas are? Just prettier battlefields?"
Alvan's gaze dropped to her mouth. "You're not armed."
"Aren't I?" She tilted her head, letting the chandelier light catch the dagger-sharp pins in her hair.
Something dark flickered in his expression. He reached out—
A knock shattered the moment.
"Five minutes, sir," a servant called.
Alvan's hand fell to his side, his mask of indifference slamming back into place. But Gia didn't miss the way his fingers flexed, like he was already missing the weight of her skin against his.
---
The ballroom on the ground floor of the hotel was a living thing—a beast of crystal and gold that pulsed with violin strings and clinking glasses. Gia descended the staircase, her hand skimming the banister like she needed an anchor. Every eye in the room snagged on her, the whispers slithering through the crowd:
"Omri's new daughter-in-law..."
"They say she gutted a man in Naples..."
"Pretty little viper..."
She schooled her face into indifference, but her nails bit crescents into her palms.
Then she saw her.
A woman in crimson stood near the champagne tower, her Venetian lace mask hiding everything but a pair of amused lips. She watched Gia with the intensity of a hawk circling prey.
Gia moved toward her, drawn by some unspoken pull.
"You're late," the woman murmured, pressing a glass of champagne into Gia's hand. "I expected you to be the first to arrive."
Gia's fingers tightened around the flute. "Do I know you?"
The woman's laugh was low, private. "No. But I know you. Gia Salvatore. The girl who survived Bubba Jenkins."
Ice flooded Gia's veins. *Bubba.* The name was a brand on her ribs. Five years ago, he'd pinned her to a warehouse floor while his men laughed. Five years ago, he'd vanished before her family could carve their revenge into his flesh.
"How—?"
"The same way I know Omri ordered you to find allies." The woman leaned in, her breath hot against Gia's ear. "And the same way I know Diego Ramirez is watching us right now."
Gia's head snapped up. Across the ballroom, Diego leaned against a marble pillar, his navy suit cutting through the pastel sea of gowns. No mask could hide the scar that split his left brow—a souvenir from a fight Omar, Gia's brother, had given him years ago. His smirk widened when he caught her staring, raising his glass in mock salute.
The woman in crimson squeezed Gia's wrist. "Meet me in the orchid conservatory at midnight. Come alone."
Then she was gone, leaving behind the scent of jasmine and a slip of paper tucked against Gia's palm.
Gia didn't have time to process the encounter before Diego materialized at her side.
"Beautiful night for secrets, *gatita*," he purred, his fingers brushing the small of her back.
She sidestepped his touch. "What do you want, Ramirez?"
His smile turned predatory. "Just welcoming you to the family. Though I wonder... does your husband know you're already making new friends?" His gaze flicked to where the woman in crimson had disappeared into the crowd.
Before Gia could retort, Alvan's voice cut through the tension. "Ramirez. I'd say it's a pleasure, but we both know I'd be lying."
Diego's grin didn't waver. "Alvan. Still playing the protective guard dog, I see."
Alvan stepped between them, his shoulder brushing Gia's. "Walk away."
The air crackled with unspoken threats. Then Diego chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. "So touchy. Enjoy your evening, sposini."
As he melted into the crowd, Gia turned to Alvan—
Just as a waiter bumped into her, spilling champagne down her gown.
"Scusi, signora!"
Alvan caught her arm as she swayed. The room tilted.
"Gia?" His voice sounded far away.
Her vision blurred at the edges. The champagne... it had tasted bitter.
"Poison," she slurred, her knees buckling.
Alvan's arms encircled her just as the world went black.
---
Gia awoke to the taste of copper and the scent of cedar.
The bedroom was unfamiliar—all dark wood and masculine austerity. Her head pounded as she sat up, the silk sheets pooling at her waist.
Across the room, Alvan shrugged into a fresh shirt, his back a canvas of old scars. He turned at her gasp, his expression unreadable.
"You were drugged," he said flatly. "Diana's doing."
Gia's stomach lurched. "And you—?"
"Carried you here when you started clawing at your own skin." His jaw tightened. "Contrary to popular belief, I don't take advantage of unconscious women."
The raw honesty in his voice unsettled her more than the headache.
---
The conservatory air clung thick with the perfume of night-blooming jasmine, the glass ceiling revealing a sky choked with stars. Gia's heels sank into damp moss as she stepped between towering orchids, their petals like skeletal hands in the moonlight.
Midnight. Alone.
A shadow detached itself from the foliage. The woman stood with her back to Gia, her crimson gown now black in the gloom, fingers trailing through the water of a marble fountain.
"You came." Her voice was different without the mask—smoke and honey, with an accent Gia couldn't place. "I wasn't sure you'd trust me."
Gia kept three paces between them, her hand resting near the slit in her skirt where a knife was strapped to her thigh. "Start talking. Who are you?"
The woman turned.
Gia's breath hitched.
She was older—mid-thirties, perhaps—with sharp Slavic cheekbones and a mouth that seemed made for secrets. A thin scar bisected her left eyebrow, pale as a thread of spider silk. Not beautiful, but compelling, like a blade you didn't realize was at your throat until it drew blood.
"Call me Mira," she said, plucking an orchid from its stem. She twirled the bloom between her fingers. "I know about Bubba Jenkins. About the warehouse. About the way he screamed when your brother finally found him last year. Only he wasn't the one, just some random guy in a mask."
Gia's pulse spiked. No one knew that. The Jenkins job had been done in silence, the body dissolved in lye.
Mira smiled at her reaction. "Oh, don't look so shocked. I make it my business to know things—like how Omri's testing your loyalty. Like how Fernando Ramirez paid Bubba to kidnap you all those years ago."
The fountain water dripped like a ticking clock. Somewhere, a petal fell.
"Why tell me this?" Gia's fingers brushed her knife.
Mira stepped closer, the orchid's stamen brushing Gia's collarbone. "Because I hate Diego Ramirez. And you…" Her eyes flicked to the bruise peeking above Gia's bodice—the one Alvan's grip had left when he carried her from the gala. "You're more use to me alive than dead."
She pressed a slip of paper into Gia's palm—a time, a place, a name:
Viktor Petrov.
"Meet me here in three nights," Mira whispered. "Come armed." Then she was gone, melting into the orchids as if she'd never been there at all.
Gia uncurled her fingers. The paper was damp with fountain water or sweat, she couldn't tell.
But the orchid left on the rim?
Its petals were edged in red.
Like blood.
In all her life, she had never met a woman who had such a powerful and frightening aura.