The gala had not yet dimmed when Aria slipped into the quieter edges of the mansion, her head buzzing with too many voices, her heart still pounding from the masked man's warning. The ballroom was all music and laughter and clinking glasses, but beyond the archways, the air shifted. Shadows deepened, candlelight thinned, and the murmurs of celebration gave way to murmurs of something else—quieter, sharper, dangerous.
She told herself she only wanted air, a chance to breathe away from Lorenzo's burning gaze and the eyes of strangers who measured her like she was both a prize and a liability. But her feet carried her down a side corridor lined with portraits, their painted eyes following her like silent witnesses. She wasn't looking for trouble, but trouble had a way of finding her.
A sliver of light spilled from a door left ajar, voices threading through the crack. Male voices, low but urgent. Something in the tone made her pause, made her breath catch in her throat. She shouldn't. She knew she shouldn't. Yet her body leaned forward, her ear near the opening, her pulse racing with the guilty thrill of hearing something not meant for her.
"…it has to be someone inside." The first voice was rough, gravel in its depth. "No one outside the family could know the shipment routes."
"The old man won't see it that way," another replied, calmer but laced with steel. "He'll blame Lorenzo. He'll say he's grown careless since taking a wife."
Aria's stomach turned cold. Her name wasn't spoken, but it hovered in the silence like a ghost.
A third voice, hushed but furious, cut in. "Careless? He's been too bold, too ruthless. There are men here who would slit his throat if they thought they could wear his crown. Don't pretend you don't know it."
The words struck her like blows. She pressed a hand to her chest, steadying herself against the wall. They weren't speaking about money or feuds over territory. They were speaking about Lorenzo. About betrayal. About death.
The first man lowered his tone, and Aria had to strain to catch the words. "The traitor's close. Too close. The kind of close you don't see until it's too late."
There was a pause, heavy, suffocating. She heard the scrape of glass against wood, the pouring of liquid. A toast, almost, but one that felt more like an oath.
"Watch him. Watch everyone around him. One wrong step, and he'll be buried before he even sees the knife."
Her breath hitched. She stepped back, careful not to make the floorboards groan. The voices continued, dropping into strategy, into names she didn't recognize—soldiers, lieutenants, allies turned liabilities—but the meaning was clear. Someone wanted Lorenzo dead. Not an enemy across the sea, not a rival family in the shadows. Someone inside. Someone he trusted.
The thought twisted in her stomach until it made her feel ill. She hated Lorenzo, resented him, cursed him in the silence of her heart. But hearing men plan his downfall, the certainty in their voices, struck something unexpected in her. A flicker of unease. Not pity—not yet—but fear. Fear because if he fell, she would not survive the collapse. His enemies would devour her first, and no diamond mask or midnight gown would save her.
She turned away from the door, forcing her steps light, deliberate, as though she had been wandering aimlessly all along. When she returned to the main hall, the music crashed back into her like a wave, but it sounded different now—sharper, brittle, the laughter edged with malice she hadn't noticed before.
Lorenzo found her within moments, as though he could sense her drifting away. His hand curled around her arm, not roughly but firmly enough to anchor her. "Where were you?" he asked, his voice low, his mask unable to hide the narrowing of his eyes.
"Air," she said quickly, tilting her chin, her tone composed. "The room was suffocating."
He studied her, searching her face for cracks, but she kept her expression smooth, calm, unreadable. A mask behind a mask. After a long pause, he nodded, though his hand lingered a second too long before releasing her.
The rest of the evening passed in fragments she could barely grasp. A toast in their honor, champagne fizzing against her tongue, hollow compliments from women whose smiles dripped poison. A dance she refused from a stranger, Lorenzo's dark look ensuring no one pressed her further. All the while, the conversation behind that door echoed in her ears, each word lodging deeper until she felt it rattling in her bones.
By the time they returned to the De Luca mansion, the diamonds at her ears felt heavy as chains, her gown suffocating like a noose. She excused herself quickly, retreating to the balcony of her gilded cage. The city stretched below, glittering like a thousand promises that would never be hers.
Her hands gripped the railing. She thought of the traitor—someone close, someone hidden, someone with a knife already aimed. She thought of Lorenzo, the man who had chained her, who had mocked her, who had stolen her freedom. She thought of him dead, and the image should have brought her comfort. Instead, it brought a chill that seeped into her marrow.
Because if Lorenzo De Luca fell, she would fall with him.
Inside, she heard the low murmur of his voice, issuing commands to his men, the echo of authority in every syllable. She closed her eyes, the masked stranger's warning colliding with the whispers she'd overheard.
He'll destroy you.There's a traitor inside.One wrong step, and he'll be buried before he sees the knife.
The night air was cool, but it couldn't quiet the storm inside her. She knew now: she wasn't just a prisoner in Lorenzo's house. She was a pawn on a board soaked in blood, and every move would be watched, every word weighed.
And somewhere, behind one of those loyal smiles, one of those lowered heads, someone was waiting for the perfect moment to strike.