The lanterns of Venice burned like golden fireflies against the ink-black sky. The lagoon mirrored their glow, disturbed only by the ripple of passing gondolas. Music spilled from palazzos along the Grand Canal — strings, laughter, the clink of crystal — all of it melting into the thick, perfumed air of the Carnival night.
Elena Menon stepped off the gondola, the silk of her crimson gown whispering over the worn stone steps. A black half-mask clung to her face, traced in gold filigree. She hated masks. But here, they were currency — a declaration that nothing was ever as it seemed.
Inside the palazzo, the air was heavy with the mingled scents of lilies and old money.
The crowd glittered with aristocrats, tycoons, and those whose wealth had no legitimate origin. It was not the type of place one stumbled into. Invitations to the Masquerade Auction were whispered about in corridors and traded in shadows. Only those with power — or those the powerful found interesting — were granted entry.
Elena had both, though she wore her power quietly.
The auctioneer, a tall Frenchman with a voice like polished steel, took his place beneath the chandelier. "Ladies and gentlemen, tonight's collection is... exceptional."
Her gaze drifted across the crowd — a habit she'd learned from her father. Never watch the stage. Watch the people watching the stage.
That was when she noticed him.
At the far end of the hall, in the darkest corner, a man leaned against a marble pillar. The mask he wore was unlike any other — black, lacquered, feathered at the edges like the spread of a peacock's tail. No gold. No jewels. Just an elegance so severe it was almost dangerous.
The air shifted. Conversations stumbled, glasses paused mid-air.
He didn't speak. He didn't move. He simply existed, and the room rearranged itself around him.
The Black Peacock.
The name was never spoken aloud at such gatherings, but everyone knew it. He was a phantom in the underworld — a broker of secrets, a collector of debts, and, some whispered, an executioner with the manners of a gentleman.
The auction began. Paintings. Jewels. A Persian dagger once owned by a king. But it wasn't until the velvet-draped final lot was rolled in that Elena felt her heartbeat hitch.
The auctioneer's voice dropped an octave. "Item twenty-three: a relic from the Ottoman court. The Mirror of Selim."
The cover was pulled back to reveal an oval mirror, its bronze frame worked into the shapes of unfurling feathers. Black enamel glinted between the curves. In the glass, her reflection wavered — as though the mirror were holding a breath.
And at the top, hidden within the pattern, was a small engraving: a peacock's eye.
Her blood ran cold. That mark was not Ottoman.
It belonged to him.
From across the room, she felt his gaze settle on her like a slow hand. Even behind the mask, there was no mistaking it. He knew she'd seen it.
The bidding began.
"Ten thousand.""Twelve.""Fifteen."
She wasn't sure why she spoke until the number was out of her mouth. "Twenty-five."
The crowd turned.
A pause. Then his voice, low and rich, rolled through the hall. "Fifty."
It was not a bid. It was a warning.
The auctioneer's gavel came down with a sharp crack. "Sold."
The Black Peacock stepped forward, and as he passed her, his gloved fingers brushed the curve of her bare shoulder — so lightly it might have been accidental.
But when she turned, he was already gone.
And in her mind, a single thought took root like poison:He wanted me to see that mark.