Chapter 2 The Masked Stranger

The soft hum of violins floated through the air like silk, weaving its way around glittering chandeliers and over the polished marble of the ballroom floor. Aria St. James stood at the edge of it all, wrapped in shadows and silk, a vision in midnight blue. Her dress clung like a second skin, modest in shape but daring in intent. A delicate black lace mask shielded her identity, yet failed to hide the fierce determination glimmering in her storm-grey eyes.

Everyone at the Moretti masquerade wore masks, both physical and metaphorical. For some, the masks were simply tradition. For Aria, they were armor.

This wasn't her world-lavish, decadent, steeped in danger disguised as elegance-but she had walked into the lion's den willingly. And she would leave with answers. Or blood.

She nursed a glass of champagne as she watched the room. Each guest glided with careful grace, a choreographed performance of whispers, seduction, and hidden daggers. Businessmen with mafia ties. Politicians with sins polished to perfection. Heiresses wearing smiles like weapons.

And at the center of it all, was the man she came for.

Dante Moretti.

He hadn't arrived yet, and part of her was grateful. She needed to ground herself. To remind herself that this wasn't a fantasy or one of the many nightmares that kept her awake at night.

This was real.

Her father's death was real.

And the man rumored to be connected to that night-cloaked in smoke, silence, and secrets-was the very man hosting this ball.

As the orchestra shifted into a sweeping waltz, Aria's eyes caught movement near the grand staircase. A figure entered, flanked by two sharply dressed men with eyes like wolves. The room seemed to exhale as he stepped in.

Dante.

He didn't wear his title like a crown. He wore it like a dagger. Quiet, gleaming, and always ready to strike. His tailored suit was dark charcoal, his mask a simple silver half-face that only made him more enigmatic. He wasn't the kind of man you stared at openly-not if you valued your life-but Aria couldn't look away.

Their eyes met across the ballroom.

Even through the crowd, even through the lace and music, there was something... electric. Something unspoken passed between them-recognition? Curiosity?

Or something far more dangerous?

She turned quickly, heart drumming like a war drum inside her chest. Get a grip, she scolded herself. You're not here to fall for the devil. You're here to expose him.

"Enjoying the view?"

The voice came from her left, deep and amused. She turned to find a man in a sleek navy suit, his mask black and featureless, like obsidian glass. Something about him felt off. Calculated.

"Depends on what I'm looking at," she replied, lifting her glass.

"Smart answer," he said, tilting his head. "You don't belong here."

"Neither do you."

The man chuckled. "Touché. But I'm not here to make friends. I'm here to observe."

"Observe who?" she asked, playing coy.

"You, for starters."

Aria's stomach tightened. There was something about him-his voice, his posture-that gnawed at the edges of her memory.

Before she could press further, he leaned in closer, whispering just above her ear. "Careful, princess. In this world, truths are more lethal than bullets. And you've already stepped into a war you can't dance out of."

Then, just as quickly as he had appeared, he vanished into the crowd, melting into shadows like a phantom.

Who was he?

Aria's hands trembled slightly as she set her champagne down. She needed air.

The balcony doors were open, and she slipped through them into the cool night, gasping slightly as she leaned against the stone railing. Below her, the city glittered like stars had fallen to earth.

"You don't seem like the dancing type."

The voice made her stiffen. Deep, confident. Smooth as velvet laced with poison.

Dante.

She turned slowly, forcing a composed smile onto her face. "And you don't seem like the hosting type, Mr. Moretti."

He stepped into the moonlight, removing his mask. "I find masks... inconvenient."

His face was sharper than photographs portrayed. Chiseled jaw, strong nose, lips that curved like they held secrets-and eyes so dark, they swallowed the night.

"You don't strike me as the typical guest," he continued, studying her.

"I don't strike people at all. It's not very ladylike."

His smile was subtle, but it reached his eyes. "Touché."

A long pause stretched between them, thick with unspoken tension.

"I know who you are," he said finally.

Aria's pulse stilled.

"Aria St. James. Daughter of Richard St. James. Tragic car explosion, wasn't it?"

Her fists clenched at her sides. "So you've done your homework."

"I do that for anyone who enters my world," he said casually, though his eyes never left hers. "But yours... intrigued me."

She stepped closer, voice like steel wrapped in silk. "And do you always keep files on grieving daughters?"

"Only the ones who lie about why they're here."

The air crackled. She was playing with fire-and the fire knew it.

"You don't scare me," she whispered.

"Liar," he whispered back, eyes narrowing.

Aria turned away, jaw tight. She wouldn't let him rattle her. She couldn't. Her father had died chasing the truth, and she would not let his legacy be buried under power, blood, and designer suits.

"I'm not your enemy, Aria," Dante said, softer this time. "But you're walking blind into something deeper than you can imagine."

She faced him again. "Then maybe it's time someone turned on the lights."

A flicker of amusement passed through his eyes. "You're reckless."

"I'm determined."

He stepped closer. "Determination without protection is suicide."

"Is that a warning?" she asked.

"No," he said, brushing a strand of hair from her face with the back of his fingers. "It's a promise."

Her breath caught. There it was-that dangerous charm everyone warned about. The pull of a man who could destroy you with a kiss... or a bullet.

"I don't make promises I can't keep," he added, eyes darkening.

Neither did she.

But she'd just made one to herself.

If Dante Moretti was the storm, she'd learn to dance in the rain-and make him beg for shelter.