Chapter 3 The Game of Echoes

The next morning arrived not with the warmth of sunlight but with the chill of reality. Aria St. James sat in her apartment's study, the windows drawn shut as city traffic murmured in the distance. The mask and gown from the masquerade were discarded beside the fireplace, a stark contrast to the files strewn across her desk.

Photographs. Police reports. Blacked-out lines on once-sensitive documents. And a name that kept reappearing like an echo across every page.

Dante Moretti.

She hadn't slept much. Her conversation with him haunted her like a song she couldn't forget. Every word, every glance, every warning-it all coiled tightly in her mind.

Was he toying with her?

Or was there something buried under his cool composure that even he couldn't mask?

A knock shattered her thoughts.

Her pulse spiked. No one knew she lived here-not under this name. Aria crossed the room, slipping a small blade into the sleeve of her robe before opening the door just a crack.

"Good morning, Miss St. James," a man said, tipping an invisible hat. He was in his forties, sharply dressed in gray, with eyes too polite to be genuine.

"Who are you?" she asked, keeping her body half behind the door.

"Your presence has been requested for a private brunch meeting," he said, producing an envelope. "By Mr. Moretti."

Her brows lifted, surprise flashing in her eyes before she masked it with calm. "That was fast."

"He's not a man who likes to wait."

"I suppose I don't have a choice?"

"You always have a choice, Miss St. James. But refusing this one may... complicate things."

She took the envelope and shut the door in his face.

Inside was a card, thick and embossed.

Brunch. Noon. Discretion required.

The Langford Estate.

-D.M.

Aria tossed the card on the table and exhaled.

It had only just begun.

The Langford Estate was nestled in a remote part of the city, guarded like a fortress but designed like a palace. Italian marble floors, sculptures carved by hands long dead, and chandeliers that glittered with silent opulence.

Aria arrived in a fitted black dress, heels clicking with confidence, and her mind sharpened like a dagger.

She was led to a courtyard filled with exotic flowers, sunlight spilling through a glass dome above. And there he was-Dante Moretti-dressed in casual gray slacks and a crisp white shirt, sipping espresso like he had nothing to hide.

"You're late," he said without looking up.

"I don't like being summoned," she replied, taking the seat across from him.

He smiled slightly. "Noted."

A servant poured her coffee as silence stretched between them. He waited until they were alone before speaking again.

"You have the eyes of someone searching for ghosts."

Aria arched a brow. "And you have the charm of someone who creates them."

Dante laughed, a low, surprising sound. "You know, most people are too afraid to speak to me like that."

"I'm not most people."

"No, you're not."

He leaned forward. "Let's drop the pretense. You think I'm connected to your father's death."

"I know you are."

"And yet, you came to my event. Danced in my fire. Why?"

"Because I want the truth."

Dante stared at her for a moment, then leaned back. "Your father was many things. Brilliant. Ruthless. But he wasn't innocent."

"That doesn't justify-"

"I didn't kill him," Dante interrupted. "But I know who did."

Aria's heart stopped.

"Then tell me."

"It's not that simple."

"It never is."

He placed a black folder on the table and slid it toward her. "You'll want to read this."

Aria opened it slowly.

Inside were surveillance photos-grainy, zoomed-in shots of her father meeting with men she didn't recognize. There were coded transaction records. Dates and locations.

One name stood out in the mess of information.

Mikhail Vetrova.

"Who is he?"

"A ghost. Russian mafia. Been operating in the States for years, but no one can pin him down. Your father was working with him-or against him. That's still unclear."

"And where do you fit into this?"

"I've been after Vetrova for years. He's unpredictable, dangerous, and has no loyalty except to chaos. If your father crossed him..."

Aria swallowed hard, heart thundering.

"Why show me this?"

"Because I need something from you," he said calmly.

"Of course you do."

"You want justice. I want control. Vetrova is a threat to both."

Aria closed the file. "And what exactly do you need me to do?"

"Get close to him. He's in town. And for some reason, he's interested in you."

She froze.

"How do you know that?"

"Because last night at the masquerade, the man in the black mask you spoke with... wasn't one of mine."

The blood drained from her face.

"Vetrova?"

"Or one of his men. Either way, you're on his radar now."

Aria's breath came shallow. "So you want me to play bait?"

"No," Dante said, eyes hardening. "I want you to play the storm. Just like you did with me."

She stood, trembling but furious. "You're insane if you think I'll be part of your twisted chess game."

Dante rose too, stepping in front of her.

"You want answers. I can give them. You want revenge? I can help you get it. But I won't lie to you, Aria-this will cost you."

She stared up at him, fists clenched.

"I've already lost everything," she whispered. "What more can you take?"

Dante's eyes softened-just a fraction. "I don't want to take. I want to build."

"With me as your pawn?"

"No," he murmured. "As my queen."

The words hung between them like a spark near gasoline.

She turned, heart in chaos, and walked away.

But something inside her whispered that she'd already stepped too far to turn back.

And somewhere, watching from shadows even Dante couldn't touch, Mikhail Vetrova smiled.