As soon as Elena De Luca walked through the arched front door of Villa Miani, the atmosphere changed. Not visibly. Not audibly. But palpably. Like a thunderhead in a blue sky.
She didn't falter.
--Her red dress was a second skin and a bright color, with little in the way of detail. It gleamed when she shifted, a flash of blood and silk. Every inch of her had been tailored for tonight — hair up in a low chignon, smoky eye makeup that framed and obscured, lips stained just deep enough to signify danger.
Heads turned. Whispers followed.
Who was she?
Where had she come from?
Why did Luciana Romano, of all people, want her in their inner circle?
Isla, though, didn't acknowledge any of them. Not yet. The subtle, steady click of her heels against marble marked a path between the old-money and the carefully curated smiles. She accepted a flute of champagne from a passing waiter but did not drink it. Her eyes were busy.
Then she saw him.
Dressed in a sharp black tuxedo, Matteo Romano stood at the edge of the grand ballroom, an aperitif in his hand. He had not changed, at least not where it mattered. His presence still took up space, still consumed the room whole. She would watch him laugh at something a senator would say, his expression polite but distant, as though his body were here and his mind miles away.
Her heart clenched, briefly.
Not now, she told herself. Tonight, there was only the ghost of Isla Caruso. But Elena De Luca was very much alive.
She didn't go to him. That would be reckless.
Instead, she slipped to the other side of the room, gliding past Rome's elite like a knife through water. Luciana was near the bar, sipping a glass of Syrah, her dress the color of oil and fire. When she caught the eye of the older woman, with whom she now shared a balcony, the older woman arched a perfectly sculpted brow.
"Elena De Luca," she drawled, voice like velvet-lined steel. "I have to say, you tidy up a lot better than I anticipated.
"I could say the same, Luciana," Elena said, smoothly. "Although somehow I doubt you ever look less than lethal."
A slow smile from Luciana, dangerous. "Flattery suits you. But let's not lie you came here to impress me."
"No," Elena admitted. "But I do believe in recognizing the woman that has the floor."
There was an unreadable glitter in Luciana's eyes. "Wise. But I wonder… do you always go to war in red?"
Elena tipped her head just a bit. "Only if I want the enemy to know I'm coming."
Luciana laughed low and swirled her wine. "You play the part well. Better than most. But remember one thing, Elena: in Rome, they let the mask slip when you least expect it."
"I'll remember that," Elena whispered.
Behind Luciana, she caught Matteo turning. Their eyes locked.
It was brief, but jarring.
An electric spark flickered across his face—not recognition, not quite, but an echo. A fracture in time. He blinked, and it disappeared, replaced with the cool detachment that he wore like armor.
He had muttered an excuse to the small group beside him and had begun walking toward them.
Luciana leaned in a little, voice quiet. "I think you have his attention now."
"I always did," Elena said softly, looking at him.
He bore the gait of someone accustomed to being watched. When he halted in front of them, his focus darted between the two women before landing on Elena.
"Ms. De Luca," he said, his voice neutral. "I wasn't expecting to see you tonight."
"Likewise," she said, evenly. "Though you have the luxury of knowing, I've heard, that these events are rarely optional for men in your position."
He gave a short nod. "True enough. Yet I'm surprised Luciana didn't issue a warning. She generally doesn't allow new players on the board without her hand on the move."
Luciana grinned, but didn't say a word.
Elena edged a little closer. "Consider this a test run. "I like to see the game first before I figure out how I want to play."
"And what do you see?" he asked, squinting ever so slightly.
She smiled faintly. "A bunch of powerful people pretending they're not terrified of losing all of it."
He studied her. Behind them the music changed, a string quartet pivoting into something slower, sadder.
"I'm impressed," he admitted. "Most of the new arrivals go to these events to pose."
"I don't need to pretend," she said, staring straight into his eyes. "I know what I offer."
Luciana made a quiet excuse and floated away, so that it was just her and Roni standing at the edge of the dance floor.
"You look like someone I know," Matteo said all of a sudden.
Elena kept her smile. "That happens after you've been around this world long enough. Everyone begins to blur."
"No," he said, as if to himself. "It's not that."
His look went down for a moment to her hands, her carriage — details, slight things. The chin angle when she deflected. The cadence of her voice.
"Had we ever met before Corsica?" he asked.
It was a light sound of laughter, precise. "I doubt I'd forget meeting Matteo Romano before Corsica."
He didn't smile. "Some things … stick, whether they work or not."
Elena's fingers tightened around her glass a little. "Memory's a funny thing. It will give you pieces, but not the truth."
"Sometimes," he said, his voice lowered now, "fragments are all you require."
Before she could answer, a voice she knew broke the air—brisk, needful.
"Elena."
She turned.
At the back of the ballroom, half in shadow, Dario stood dressed as one of the catering staff. His features were taut; his gaze fixed on her. He should not be here.
She froze for half a heartbeat.
Matteo followed her gaze. "You know him?"
Elena smiled against her will. "No. "Must be mistaken identity."
Matteo didn't buy it. His posture stiffened. "He looked at you like he knew who you were."
Elena didn't answer. She couldn't. Not here.
"I need air," she said fast, putting down her glass and heading toward the terrace.
Matteo stepped after her. "Elena—"
She didn't stop. She stepped out onto the stone balcony and the shock of the night air landed on her. Below, Rome lay like a painting, indifferent, ancient."
Dario was already waiting in the wings.
"What are you doing here?" she hissed.
"We have a problem," he said, his voice clipped. "Someone followed you. Someone who knows."
Her blood turned to ice. "Who?"
"I'm not sure right now," he said, looking at the door. "But maybe Romano is not the only one watching you now."
The sound of a door creaking open behind them.
Matteo came up onto the terrace, his gaze on hers.
And in his hand — just barely in the glimmer of the moonlight — was the photo.
That Amalfi Coast one. The one he had concealed for four years.
"Elena," he said, gradually raising it, "why do you look exactly like a dead woman I once loved?"