The Stranger

The mask itches.

Gold filigree. Peacock feathers. Three hours of smiling through eyeholes that turn the world to fragments.

Benedetti women must be beautiful even when hiding.

Especially when hiding.

I scan the ballroom. Candlelight catches crystal, catches silk, catches the glint of cufflinks engraved with crests no one earns. The orchestra plays Vivaldi because the orchestra always plays Vivaldi. Safe music for dangerous people.

The annual masquerade. Neutral territory.

Both families pretending.

"Isabella." Marco's hand closes on my elbow. My brother's mask is black, simple. I'd know him by grip alone. "Don't wander."

"Champagne."

"I'll get it."

"I'm twenty-five."

His fingers tighten. "The Vitales are here."

The name lands.

Vitale.

Bullet in her head. Eight years old. Imported marble going dark. The closet where I hid, counting her breaths until they stopped.

Seventeen years. I still hear the silence after.

"I know who's here." I peel his hand off. "Ten minutes."

He doesn't like it.

He doesn't stop me.

The crowd swallows me whole. Masks everywhere, gold, silver, feathered, grotesque. I take champagne from a passing tray.

Don't drink it.

Just need to breathe.

The side door. Cold air. January on bare shoulders.

The terrace is dark. Garden below, fountain somewhere, shadow and silence. I grip the railing.

Breathe.

"Running away?"

I turn.

He owns the wall he's leaning against. Black mask. Dark suit cut like a threat. I can't see his face.

I can see his mouth.

It's smiling.

"Taking a break."

"That dress says otherwise." His gaze moves down my body. Slow. I should be offended.

Heat blooms where he looks.

"Maybe I'm tired of attention."

"The wrong kind?"

I don't answer.

He pushes off the wall. Closer. Not threatening, curious. Predator assessing another predator.

"What's the right kind?"

"No one's asked."

His head tilts. His posture changes.

Interest, sharpening.

Inside, the orchestra changes. A waltz.

"Dance with me."

Not a question.

"I don't know you."

"That's the point." He extends his hand. Black leather, worn elegant. "No names. No histories. Just tonight."

My stomach tightens.

This is stupid. Marco could appear any second. This man could be anyone. Could be Vitale. Could be death in a beautiful mask.

His hand stays extended.

Not entitled. Offering.

Like he's giving me something no one else has.

"One dance."

His fingers close around mine.

I expect cold. Get warmth instead.

A current climbs my arm, settles somewhere behind my sternum.

We move. His hand finds my waist, burns through silk. My hand finds his shoulder, finds muscle shifting beneath.

He leads without controlling. Every step a question.

Here?

My body answers.

Yes.

"You're good at this," I say.

"Practice."

"Dancing or women on terraces?"

His laugh is low. "Just dancing. This..." his thumb traces my waist, ", is new."

"What is?"

"Wanting a name when the whole point is not asking."

I miss a step.

He catches me.

The song ends.

Neither of us lets go.

His hand shifts. Waist to hip. Barely. I track it everywhere, the heat spreading, the flush climbing my throat. He sees it. He knows.

"Come with me."

I should say no.

Walk back inside. Find Marco. Accept Alessandro Ferraro's damp handshake and slow suffocation.

That's the future I was born into.

His thumb brushes my jaw. Tilts my face up.

Behind the mask, his gaze burns dark.

Something in them I recognize.

Trapped. Hungry. Tired of pretending.

"No names," I say. My voice holds steady. "No numbers. Just tonight."

"Just tonight."

He takes my hand.

I follow him into the dark.