DeLuca Estate
The golden glow of the city skyline spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting elongated shadows across the cold, sleek surfaces of Adrian DeLuca's office. The space was a portrait of order and control—not a single object out of place, not a single sign of weakness.
Dark mahogany shelves lined the walls, their shelves filled with leather-bound books that spoke of knowledge and strategy, interspersed with artifacts of war—an old pistol mounted beneath glass, a gleaming dagger resting on a stand.
The air was rich with the scent of aged whiskey and fine leather, but beneath it lurked something sharper, something unmistakable—gunpowder and steel.
A black envelope landed on the polished oak desk with a soft, deliberate thud.
"You'll love this."
Nikolai's voice was laced with dry amusement as he dropped into the chair across from Adrian with the easy sprawl of a man who had never known restraint. His grey eyes held their usual mischief, but there was a glint beneath the surface—something calculated, something knowing.
Adrian didn't react immediately. He reached for the envelope with measured precision, his fingers tracing over the smooth surface. The wax seal was a deep, blood-red, pressed with the Moretti crest—an ornate lion's head, regal and unyielding.
His thumb pressed against the wax, cracking it open. The scent of parchment and old ink curled into the air.
A masquerade ball.
A gathering of the city's most powerful, veiled in silk and deception. A place where secrets would be exchanged between glasses of bourbon, where danger would lurk behind every painted smile.
His jaw tightened, his blue eyes scanning the elegantly scripted words with an unreadable expression.
They picked a hell of a time to play host.
"The timing is interesting," Nikolai remarked, stretching his legs in front of him. His casual posture didn't fool Adrian—Nikolai never wasted words. "Right after the Morelli estate fiasco. Feels like they're testing the waters. Seeing who's still standing after that little mess."
Adrian's fingers stilled. His grip on the paper tightened.
"The Ivanovs are standing."
The words were flat. Absolute.
Nikolai smirked. "And they'll be at the party."
That was the real message behind the invitation.
The Morettis weren't just hosting a party—they were watching the board. Gathering every major player into one room. Letting enemies stand side by side, forcing them into civility under the guise of elegance.
Adrian's thoughts flickered, unbidden, to the Morelli estate deal. The Ivanovs had moved too quietly, too precisely. Whoever had orchestrated it had covered their tracks well.
And that alone was unacceptable.
Perhaps this masquerade would provide him with an answer.
He folded the invitation with careful precision, setting it down beside his untouched glass of whiskey. His blue gaze lifted to meet Nikolai's.
"We'll attend."
Nikolai grinned, all sharp amusement. "Finally, a night out."
Adrian wasn't smiling.
His fingers traced the embossed lettering, feeling the weight of the moment settle in his chest.
"This isn't a celebration."
His voice was quiet. Certain.
"This is war behind a mask."
Ivanov Estate
The Ivanov estate was a fortress of black marble, its towering walls cutting into the night like a blade. Unlike the DeLucas' modern elegance, the Ivanovs carried the weight of history—cold, unyielding, untouchable.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old books, aged scotch, and Cuban cigars. The low flicker of candlelight cast restless shadows against the walls, illuminating the room in a dim, golden haze.
In her private study, Valeria Ivanov reclined against a velvet couch, one leg crossed over the other. The invitation spun between her fingers, its edges whispering against her skin.
Her nails, painted the deep, wicked red of dried blood, tapped against the parchment in an idle rhythm.
A masquerade ball.
A night where enemies would share polished smiles and poisoned words.
The Morettis rarely invited her to anything. They dealt with Lorenzo Ivanov, not his daughter. Which made this invitation all the more interesting.
The heavy oak doors creaked open.
Her father entered, his presence swallowing the room whole.
Lorenzo Ivanov did not need to raise his voice to command authority. He simply was authority.
Dressed in a ruthless black suit, he moved like a man who had spent decades mastering the art of power. Every step was measured, deliberate. His sharp blue eyes—the same ice-cold shade as hers—flickered to the envelope in her grasp.
"So." His voice was smooth, unreadable. "You've been invited."
Valeria arched a brow. "You sound surprised."
"I expected them to invite me," Lorenzo admitted, striding further into the room. "Not you."
A slow smirk curled at the corner of her lips.
"Then maybe they know something you don't."
His gaze darkened. A flicker of warning. But he let the remark slide.
Instead, he took the invitation from her hands, his fingers skimming the parchment once before he tossed it onto the glass table between them.
"This could be useful."
His voice was thoughtful, deliberate. A man planning his next move.
"A room full of powerful men, all pretending to be civilized," he murmured, more to himself than to her.
Valeria already knew what was coming next.
"You'll go," Lorenzo continued, his tone carrying no room for argument. "And you'll make sure Adrian DeLuca doesn't leave that party without knowing your name."
She leaned back, her smirk deepening.
"You want me to get close to him."
"I want him distracted." His voice was edged with something darker than mere strategy. Hatred.
"I want his mind occupied."
Valeria's smirk didn't falter, but inside, something coiled in her chest.
The first move of the game.
She was no stranger to seduction, to manipulation. She had wrapped men around her fingers before, turned their desires into weapons.
But Adrian DeLuca?
He wasn't a man who would fall easily.
And that was exactly what made this fun.
She stood, picking up the invitation once more.
The Morettis had no idea what kind of storm they had just invited into their home.
A slow, wicked smirk played on her lips.
"I suppose I'll need a dress."