Our bodies were slick with sweat, skin glowing, The bed creaked softly every time I shifted, my breath stuttering as his hand slid up, curving over my breast.
"I want to be on top," I whispered, my voice a velvet trap.
He didn't argue. Men like him—bloated with ego and expensive wine—never do. He let me shift, his hands greedy on my hips as I climbed over him. He thought he was the hunter. He thought this was a game of pleasure where he held the cards.
I began to ride him, the rhythmic motion masking the way my fingers drifted upward, tracing the line of his jaw until they settled around his thick throat.
"Tight," he wheezed, a delirious smirk tugging at his mouth. "I like it tight, sweetheart."
"You have no idea," I murmured.
Then, I squeezed.
His eyes went wide, the pupils dilating as the air was cut off. He tried to throw me off, but his limbs were lead. The spiked scotch I'd poured him ten minutes ago was finally singing in his veins, stripping the fire from his muscles.
I watched the life flicker in his eyes —as he gasped for a breath that wouldn't come. I didn't look away. A Ghost doesn't blink at the sight of death.
I sat back on my heels, slowly catching my breath, admiring the way the moonlight hit the gold necklace resting on his chest.
I took my time unfastening the clasp. It was heavy, 24-karat, and far too beautiful for a man like him.
I stood up slowly, my naked body silhouetted against the Roman skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I didn't care if someone saw. I was a ghost; I didn't exist unless I wanted to. I walked over to the vanity and picked up my silk slip, sliding it over my head with agonizing slowness, letting the fabric settle against my skin.
There was no rush. The poison would keep his heart quiet, and the hotel staff wouldn't knock until noon.
I grabbed the briefcase under the desk, packed with the rows of cash he'd shown off earlier like a fool.
Finally, I reached into my bag and pulled out the blackened-gold key.
I walked to the heavy oak door of the suite. I slid the key into the lock. I didn't turn the handle. Instead, I closed my eyes and pictured the high-end boutique on Rue Montaigne.
I twisted the key. The lock didn't click; it sighed, a sound like a secret being kept.
When I pushed the door open, the humid hotel room was gone. I stepped through the frame and found myself standing in the back storage room of a shop in Paris. I pulled the key out, tucked it away, and smoothed down my hair.
I walked out into the main showroom, my heels clicking softly on the polished glass. A sales assistant looked up, startled by the woman who had seemingly appeared from nowhere.
"I need something for a masquerade," I said, my voice smooth and perfectly calm. "And I don't want to see anything that costs less than my briefcase."
The sales assistant didn't ask questions. You don't ask questions when a woman walks out of a back room carrying a briefcase and wearing a look that says she owns the street outside. I picked out the most expensive piece in the store—a floor-length gown of deep black silk and smoky grey lace. It looked like a storm cloud.
I headed for the changing rooms. As I pulled the heavy velvet curtain shut, I looked at the briefcase. I could have paid. I had more than enough of the dead man's cash to buy the whole store. But why waste money when you have power? Stealing felt more honest.
I stripped off the slip and pulled on the gown. It fit perfectly, the silk cool against my skin. I reached for a masquerade mask—grey filigree edged in gold, with dark feathers that arched over my eyes like a bird of prey. It didn't hide my grey eyes; it highlighted them.
I looked at the briefcase on the floor. I couldn't exactly walk into a high-end gala carrying a box of stolen euros.
I took out my key and slid it into the changing room door.
Home.
The boutique air vanished, replaced by my apartment. I stepped through, dropped the briefcase on my bed, and walked to the other room down the hall. I checked on my brother, Leo. He was pale, his breathing steady only because of the machines my "blood money" paid for.
"I'll be back soon," I whispered.
I walked to his bedroom door, slid the key in, and closed my eyes. I didn't want a boutique this time. I wanted the belly of the beast.
The De Rossi Estate. Italy.
I turned the key and pushed the door open.
The sound hit me first—a live orchestra playing something classical and expensive. The air smelled of aged bourbon and heavy perfume. I stepped out onto a balcony on the second floor of the De Rossi ballroom.
A man was leaning against the railing nearby, swaying with a glass of scotch in his hand. He watched me step out of a closet door and froze, his mouth hanging open. He rubbed his eyes, looking at the door, then at me, then back at the door. He probably thought the alcohol had finally triggered a hallucination.
I didn't give him an explanation. I just smirked, a slow, sharp curve of my lips, and walked past him.
I started my descent down the grand staircase, my heels clicking a steady rhythm against the marble. Below me, the ballroom was a sea of masks and swaying bodies. This wasn't just any party; this was the De Rossi annual masquerade. The De Rossis weren't just "businessmen"—they were the mafia royalty that owned half of Italy.
I wasn't here for the champagne. I was here as a spy, sent to map out the exits and see how deep their security went before my real assignment began.
My dress trailed behind me, the black and grey flowers in the lace catching the light of the chandeliers. I felt like a shadow moving through a room full of people.
But as I reached the final step, the hair on my arms stood up. I felt someone watching me. Not just looking, but watching.
I turned my head slightly. Standing by the marble fountain was a man who didn't need a mask to be intimidating. He wore one anyway—a simple black piece that made his hazel eyes look like burning gold. He wasn't dancing. He was just standing there, his head tilted as his gaze locked onto mine.
Lucien De Rossi.