The La Fenice Opera House stood in all its baroque grandeur, its chandeliers casting golden light over the masked elites of the evening. The hum of conversation, the clinking of fine crystal, the distant, mournful swell of a violin—it was the kind of setting where whispers could shape fortunes and ruin legacies.
Vincenzo Moretti adjusted the cuff of his tailored black suit, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. Beneath the golden mask that covered the upper half of his face, his eyes were sharp, calculating. His fingers twitched slightly against the rim of his glass—anticipation, not nerves. He had played these games before.
Marco, beside him, nudged his arm and subtly gestured toward a woman across the room. "Isn't that your little Vittore friend?" he teased, amusement curling at the corner of his lips. The way he said it, the slight upward lilt in his tone, was pure mischief.
Vincenzo followed his gaze, and there she was—Alessia.
Draped in a deep crimson gown that clung to her like temptation itself, her mask of silver filigree did little to hide the sharp intelligence in her dark eyes. She was in conversation, but there was a certain ease to her stance, an unbothered elegance that made her stand out even among the wealth-dripping aristocrats around her. She held a glass delicately between her fingers, but it was her eyes that did the drinking—watching, calculating, assessing the room as if she already knew its secrets.
Vincenzo exhaled softly, amusement flickering in his gaze. The corner of his mouth twitched, a ghost of a smirk. "Go do your part," he murmured to Marco. "Spread the whispers, watch for anything… suspicious."
Marco smirked. His eyes danced with the thrill of mischief. "I'll be listening." And with that, he melted into the crowd.
Vincenzo took his time approaching. The game had already begun.
---
Alessia had sensed him before he spoke. She didn't stiffen, didn't turn immediately—but he saw it. The slight pause in the way she swirled her glass, the minuscule shift of her shoulders, like a predator acknowledging another.
"Impressive," she murmured without turning, sipping from her glass. "A room full of masks, and yet you found me."
Vincenzo let a small smirk play at his lips. "A trick of the eye," he mused, though his gaze never wavered. "Or perhaps you've always been the most dangerous thing in any room, and my instincts are well-trained."
She finally turned to face him, tilting her head slightly. "Flattery? That's unlike you, Moretti."
He stepped closer, close enough for her to catch the scent of whiskey and something faintly spiced. "I don't flatter, Alessia. I simply state facts."
She held his gaze, unblinking, a slow smile curving her lips. "Dangerous? Is that how you see me?"
Vincenzo leaned in, just enough for his breath to brush against her ear. His voice dipped lower, deliberate. "I see a woman who plays with fire and never gets burned."
Her fingers trailed along the rim of her glass, slow, deliberate. A barely-there flicker of amusement in her gaze—like she was considering setting the fire just to watch what he'd do. "And you think you can handle the flames?"
"I think," he murmured, reaching past her to pluck a glass from a passing tray, "you're waiting for someone who can."
She studied him, her lips parting slightly before she laughed—a low, sultry sound. Not just amusement—curiosity. As if she was trying to decide whether to let him win or burn him for the attempt.
"You always did love a challenge."
Vincenzo lifted his glass in silent agreement, his gaze locked onto hers as they both took a slow sip, the game thick between them.
"Come," she finally said, setting her glass down. "Let's talk somewhere less… crowded."
---
Meanwhile, Marco moved through the opera house with effortless ease, planting the bait like a seasoned fisherman. The whispers spread, carefully seeded into the right ears—an exclusive stock surge, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, something only the most elite could have access to.
It didn't take long for the room to shift, the hunger creeping into the glances exchanged between investors, the murmurs growing just loud enough to be heard. Greed was a language Marco spoke fluently. He watched it spread like wildfire, flickering in widened eyes and hushed conversations.
And that was when he spotted him.
A watcher.
The man was good—lingering at the edge of the crowd, barely noticeable. But not good enough. His eyes flickered too often toward where Vincenzo and Alessia had disappeared.
Marco exhaled slowly, adjusting his cufflinks. He moved toward the man, silent as a shadow, then—tap.
The watcher barely turned before Marco greeted him with an easy, casual, "Hey there."
Confusion. Barely a heartbeat.
Then came the clean, precise strike. A swift motion—no excess force, just enough to knock him out cold.
No one noticed. No one even looked.
Within moments, Marco had the man dragged to an underground chamber of the opera house, a space secured beforehand with Lucia's cloned keycards. As the unconscious body slumped in the chair, Marco crouched beside him, tilting his head. "That was too easy," he muttered, almost disappointed.
He pulled out his phone. Time to let Vincenzo know.
---
On a secluded balcony, moonlight bathed the scene in silver. Below, the canal gleamed, gondolas drifting lazily through the Venetian night.
"I wonder," Alessia murmured, tracing a finger along the marble railing, "do you always get what you want, Moretti?"
Vincenzo stepped closer, just enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him. He let the silence stretch, watching the way she shifted ever so slightly—closer, not away.
"Only when it's worth the effort."
Her gaze flicked to his lips—just for a second. A tell. One she'd probably deny if he called her on it.
"And am I?"
Vincenzo lifted a hand, his fingers barely grazing her jaw. "That's what I'm trying to find out."
The air between them stretched tight—taut, charged, something waiting to break.
Then—a cough.
Vincenzo exhaled, his jaw flexing as he fought the smirk. Slowly, he pulled back. Marco stood at the entrance, arms crossed. "Hate to interrupt," he drawled, "but we have company."
---
In the underground chamber, the man was awake, bound to a chair, sweat beading along his temple.
Alessia stood beside Vincenzo, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. Not indifferent—controlled. Her gaze swept over the man as if already measuring how much use he was worth.
"Talk."
The man swallowed, darting a glance at Marco—who was slowly rolling up his sleeves, flexing his fingers.
"I… I was watching the girl," he stammered. "Nicodemo's orders."
A sharp crack echoed in the chamber—Marco's fist connecting with his ribs. A choked gasp. Not too much. Just enough to loosen tongues.
Alessia exhaled, tilting her head slightly. "Not bad," she murmured to Marco. "Clean."
Marco smirked. "I aim to please."
Vincenzo, however, watched Alessia carefully. Not just her words—but the way her lips curved slightly as she said them. "You have loose ends to tie up."
She met his gaze. Something flickered there—dark, amused. Dangerous. Then, slowly, she smiled. "Consider them handled."
And just like that, she turned, her gown sweeping behind her as she left.
---
As they ascended back into the heart of the opera house, Marco exhaled. "Well, that was fun."
Vincenzo smirked. "And effective."
The bait had been set. High society was starving for the stock news, the room alive with whispered speculation.
Now, all that was left was the accountant.
And Vincenzo Moretti never left a job unfinished.