Chapter 8 No.8

Isabella POV

The applause had faded, but the silence that followed Marco Viti's departure was heavier than any ovation. My heart was still racing, a frantic bird trapped against my ribs, not from the adrenaline of the performance, but from the terror of near-exposure.

I reached for my wine glass, my fingers trembling slightly, only to find Alida Savage standing beside our table. She didn't look defeated. If anything, the humiliation of my performance seemed to have sharpened her edges, turning her from a jealous rival into something far more dangerous.

"Erica," Alida purred, ignoring me completely as she leaned toward Vincenzo's mother. She held her champagne flute with a delicate, predatory grace. "I just saw Mr. Viti leaving. Such a charming man, isn't he? Though, I must say, it is... peculiar."

Erica blinked, her cosmetic mask shifting into confusion. "What is?"

"That a Caporegime of the Falcone family-one of their most lethal, from what my father says-would fly all the way from New York for a simple engagement dinner." Alida's gaze slid to me then, cold and calculating. "Unless, of course, the bride is not so simple. Or perhaps, she is carrying secrets that require a high-ranking escort. What do you think, Isabella?"

The air around the table curdled. Erica's eyes snapped to me, narrowing with sudden, ugly suspicion. Alida had played her hand perfectly. She knew she couldn't beat me at the piano, so she decided to paint a target on my back instead. In our world, being talented was forgivable; being a Rat-a spy-was a death sentence.

I didn't answer. I couldn't. Because any defense I offered would only sound like a lie to people who were already convinced of my guilt.

I felt a gaze burning into the side of my face. I didn't need to look to know it was Vincenzo. He was sitting in the shadows of the head table, silent, watching the exchange with the stillness of a predator waiting for the grass to rustle.

"Excuse me," I murmured, standing up abruptly. "I need some air."

I didn't wait for permission. I turned and walked away, my heels clicking sharply against the marble, putting as much distance between myself and Alida's poison as possible.

I found a secluded balcony off the main hall. The moment I stepped out, the icy wind of Chicago slapped my cheeks, stinging my eyes. I gripped the iron railing, breathing in the scent of the lake and exhaust fumes, trying to steady my shaking hands.

I couldn't stay here. Marco's appearance, Alida's accusations, Vincenzo's dissecting stare-it was all closing in on me. If I stayed, they would find out who I really was. And then I wouldn't be a wife; I would be a hostage used against my grandfather.

A prickle of awareness skittered down my spine.

I turned slowly. Through the glass doors of the balcony, across the expanse of the emptying ballroom, Vincenzo was watching me. He hadn't moved from his seat, but his presence filled the space between us. His dark eyes were locked onto mine, stripping away the silk and the pretense. There was no warmth in that look, only a terrifying, possessive calculation. He looked at me like I was a puzzle he intended to break apart to solve.

Fear clawed at my throat, but I refused to let him see it. I straightened my spine, lifting my chin in a gesture of pure defiance. I held his gaze for a heartbeat, pouring every ounce of my disdain into it, and then I turned my back on him.

It was a small rebellion, a petty act of war, but it felt like the only freedom I had left.

I didn't go back inside.

Instead, I moved toward the service stairs at the far end of the terrace. The dinner was winding down, the confusion of departing guests providing the perfect cover. I slipped down the concrete steps, my heart hammering a violent rhythm against my chest.

I emerged onto the side street outside the hotel. It was a narrow, cobblestone alley, dimly lit by flickering gas lamps that cast long, twisted shadows on the wet ground. The cold was biting, seeping through the thin fabric of my dress, but I didn't care.

I scanned the street desperately. A yellow taxi was turning the corner, its "For Hire" light a beacon of hope in the gloom.

Just get in. Go to the train station. Disappear.

I raised my hand to flag it down, my breath hitching in my throat.

But before the taxi could slow, the shadows near the wall shifted. The darkness seemed to detach itself from the brickwork, forming into a towering, broad-shouldered silhouette that blocked my path.

The air temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.

" Dove pensi di andare, principessa? " (Where do you think you are going, princess?)

The voice was low, smooth, and laced with a deadly calm that made my blood freeze.

I stopped dead. Vincenzo stepped into the pool of yellow light from the streetlamp. He wasn't wearing his overcoat, just his black suit that strained against the muscle of his shoulders. His face was a mask of cold fury, his jaw tight, his eyes dark pits of promethean fire.

He hadn't just followed me. He had hunted me.

And now, there was nowhere left to run.