The music at Villa Miani had been soft and elegant — exactly the kind of unobtrusive string ensemble that Matteo used to tune out. But tonight, each note reverberated louder than it was meant to. Every flute of champagne, every murmur of conversation, rubbed at the tension twisting under his skin.
He lingered at the fringes of the gala, half-shadowed behind a marble column, his eyes cast on the woman in the crimson gown. Elena De Luca. She moved with a discipline too practiced to be accidental. Like a performer on stage, aware that every eye was on her and she was working that side of the stage.
And yet … it was not only the gown. Or the easy way in which she enticed Rome's most cutthroat power brokers. It was her voice. The way it had wrapped itself around particular vowels. The waiting period before she answered his questions at Palazzo Montieri. It was something too close to the surface, like a ripple on still water that suggested depth too perilous to plot.
"You're staring again," her voice came, dry as old vermouth, from beside him.
Matteo didn't glance at her. "I've seen her before."
Luciana raised an eyebrow, her diamond earrings sparkling in the chandelier light. "In a file, maybe. You've gone through dozens of reports since the Corsican channel opened up."
"No," he said flatly. "It's something else. Her face, her tone. It's… familiar."
Luciana's smile was sharp. "Perhaps there's just an allure to mystery. Or possibly you don't like that she makes you second-guess yourself."
He took a sip of his whiskey, his eyes on Elena as she chortled—too easily—at something Sergio Leone, an old rival of Matteo's he trusted as far as he could throw, said. That laugh. His chest tightened.
"She's dangerous," Luciana went on, this time quietly, her tone layered with something colder. "No true background prior to Corsica. No digital footprint. Of all people, you should know how impossible that is these days."
"And yet you brought her to me."
"I brought her to the table. I didn't ask you to have a meal with her." Luciana moved closer still, sharp sweet perfume. "Tread carefully, Matteo. "Beautiful women without pasts such as this tend to re-create your future."
Matteo said nothing. His gaze panned after Elena, who took a glass of champagne from a waiter, her movements always elegant, never stiff. Her gown was silk, and it shimmered like blood in the low light.
When she turned and their eyes met here across the room, he didn't look away.
For a moment, the din of the gala felt like it fell silent.
Elena held his gaze, her lips parting ever so slightly as if she, too, sensed something buried in him. Then she swiveled, chatting with another guest as if the moment had never occurred.
Matteo breathed out quick and went.
With the grace of calculation, he glided through the throngs, parting conversations like the Red Sea and redirecting gazes into the periphery. He stopped only when he was inches away from her, allowing her to finish a sentence with the elderly Montieri matriarch before she noticed his presence and raised her eyes.
"Mr. Romano," she said smoothly, her voice the same — but not. Not quite.
"Elena," he said, extending his hand. "You appear… battle-ready."
A small smile flickered on her lips. "In Rome, isn't every party a battleground?"
"Only when enemies wear the garb of allies."
"And allies, they act like ghosts," she continued, taking his hand for the briefest second. Her fingers warm, steady.
His jaw tensed. "We didn't complete our conversation the other night."
"There was more to say?"
"Always."
She tilted her head. "Then say it."
Matteo gazed around, noting how many sets of eyes followed us. "Not here. Walk with me."
To his surprise, she nodded. He offered his arm. She took it.
They walked out of the ballroom into a quieter hallway, which was decked with antiques paintings and heavy drapes. Moonlight poured through arched windows, and outside, the garden was bejeweled with dew.
"You don't like crowds," she said.
"I don't believe them," Matteo said.
"Trust is a scarce currency where you live."
"And yours?"
There was no light in her eyes when she smiled. "Even rarer."
They paused at a marble-balustrade overlooking the Roman skyline. The city glimmered in the distance — timeless, uncaring.
Matteo scrutinized her in the silence. Even close up, the illusion was close to flawless. The way her hair hung on her face. The shape of her eyes. But there were slight differences — just enough to prompt a person to doubt.
"Where are you really from, Elena?"
She didn't flinch. "Corsica, as my file says."
"Files lie. So do people."
"And yet you do business with both," she said flatly.
"I have a good eye for masks. But yours …" His eyes narrowed. "It fits too well."
She glanced at him slowly, her face inscrutable. "You think I'm lying to you."
"I think you're hiding something."
Elena stood against the stone railing, her blood-red gown pooled over the white marble like spilled ink. "We all are, Mr. Romano. Some hide their guilt. Others their grief."
"And what do you hide?"
For a moment, just a moment, her mask broke.
Pain flickered in her eyes. Not fear. Not anger. Pain. And then it was gone.
"I'm perhaps hiding from a person I used to be," she said quietly.
The words struck him like a stone to the chest.
Because hadn't he been guilty of that, too?
"Why come here?" he asked. "To this gala, around my people, my enemies? If you're trying to make a point — "
"Maybe I'm just treading water," she interrupted. "Seeing how far I can float before someone sinks me."
Matteo leaned in closer, his tone hushed. "Go out too far, and you may not come back.
She held his gaze. "Maybe that's the point."
A silence stretched between the two of them thick with tension and something even more dangerous than mistrust.
He was about to speak again when a gentle vibration buzzed in her clutch. She drew it free and checked the screen with a flick of her thumb. What she saw erased the cool detachment from her features.
"What is it?" he asked, stepping closer.
But she was already looking away.
"I'm sorry, I have to leave early, Mr. Romano."
"Why?"
Her eyes flicked up to his. "Something's come up."
He took her by the arm — not roughly, but enough to stopher. "Don't lie to me."
"I'm not," she said quietly. "But I won't explain either."
"Elena—"
"You'll see soon enough."
She turned and walked away, vanishing down the hall, her heels clicking after her.
Matteo stared after her, head spinning.
Inside, though, the gala went on, oblivious to the rupture that had just rippled through its gilded veneer.
A moment later, Nico came over, out of breath. "Sir. We've got a situation."
Matteo turned sharply. "What kind?"
Nico swallowed hard. "My god, someone just broke into the Romano crypt. Security's been breached."
Matteo froze, blood going cold.
"What did they take?" he demanded.
Nico hesitated. "Nothing, sir."
Matteo's voice sank into a growl. "Then what were they seeking?"
Nico met his gaze. "The intruder… forgot something."