Charlène didn't rush. A woman who rushes was a woman who was afraid, and she hadn't felt fear in years.
She plucked a glass of deep, blood-red Barolo from a passing waiter's tray. She didn't gulp it; she let the wine coat her tongue, the tartness grounding her as her eyes swept the room. She was mapping it all: the security by the velvet-draped exits, the height of the balconies, the blind spots behind the marble pillars.
The air didn't just change; it stilled. Charlène turned slowly, her expression a mask of bored elegance. And there he was. The same man who had been standing by the marble fountain. Even behind his simple black mask, his presence was staggering.
Up close, he was a problem. His suit was tailored to perfection. He had the most beautiful hazel eyes she had ever seen—flecked with gold and amber.
"Every bird here has a mate," he said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone. "And yet, I find a phoenix standing alone."
"Maybe I don't like the company," she replied, her voice smooth and dangerously calm.
She finished the wine in one elegant swallow and placed the empty glass back onto a waiter's tray without breaking eye contact with him.
"Dance with me," he didn't ask—it was a command disguised as an invitation.
"I suppose I can spare three minutes," she murmured.
When her fingers met his, a jolt of electricity surged through her so sharply she almost gasped. She wondered if he felt the same shock. He led her toward the center of the floor just as the orchestra began a slow, haunting waltz.
As he pulled her into the dance, the world began to blur. The hundreds of guests, the shimmering chandeliers, the hushed whispers of the elite—it all faded into a dull hum. For a moment, it felt like they were the only two people in existence. It felt as if, in this dance, they simply belonged to each other.
"You're a better dancer than I expected," he murmured, pulling her an inch closer than was polite.
"I've spent a lot of time training," she replied. "In many things."
He smirked. "I don't doubt it. But you haven't told me your name. I'd hate to remember you only as the girl with the icy eyes."
"Why would I give my name to a stranger?" She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. "Names are earned, not given. And you, signore, haven't done anything to earn mine."
His grip on her waist tightened. He liked the challenge. It showed in the way his pupils dilated.
Something came over her. "You have incredible eyes," she murmured, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
"And yours," he whispered, his hand firm on the small of her back, "are like the winter sea. Dangerous. Deep."
He spun her, and for a heartbeat, Charlène forgot she was an assassin. She forgot about the briefcase of stolen cash and the machines keeping Leo alive. She was just a girl in a dress that felt like a dream, dancing with a man who looked at her as if she were the only mystery worth solving.
"I heard a rumour," she immediately changed the topic, "that the De Rossi family owns the very air we're breathing in Italy. They say the Don is a ghost who rules from a throne of secrets. Is he as terrifying as they say?"
Lucien's face didn't change. He played the part of the bored guest perfectly. "People love to tell ghost stories. Maybe he's just a man who knows how to keep what is his."
"And what is his tonight?" she asked, testing him.
He didn't answer right away, his gaze searching hers as if trying to read her soul. "Everything."
They stayed like that, lost in the music, their bodies moving in perfect, silent harmony. It was a Cinderella moment—fragile and impossible.
But the clock always strikes twelve.
During a sudden, sweeping turn, the silk ribbon of her mask brushed against the sharp edge of his cufflink. The knot gave way. Before she could catch it, the feathered mask slipped, sliding down her face.
She gasped, exposed. The moonlight from the high windows hit the side of her face, revealing the small, distinct birthmark near her eye.
Charlène didn't wait for him to process it. Her hair fell forward, a dark curtain shielding her features, but she knew he had seen enough.
"Excuse me," she choked out.
"Wait!" he called, reaching for her as she pulled away.
She didn't look back. She turned and cut through the crowd. Behind her, she could hear him calling out, the sound of his footsteps heavy as he tried to push through the sea of people.
He kept following her.
He was relentless, a predator who had found a scent he wasn't willing to lose.
Her eyes darted frantically. A door. She just needed a door.
But the ballroom was an open sea of people. She looked toward the grand staircase—no, he would catch her before she hit the first landing. The main exit stood wide open, flanked by De Rossi guards. Her key was useless on an open threshold; the portal only responded when a lock was involved.
She veered toward a side exit, stumbling out onto the stone terrace.
Charlène stopped at the top of the garden stairs and turned. Lucien was there, silhouetted against the golden glow of the ballroom. He wasn't running anymore; he was stalking toward her, his gaze fixed on her face with terrifying focus.
"Cara mia, stay. I only want to know who you are. I want a name for the face that's going to haunt my sleep."
The way he said it—so smooth, so Italian—almost made her falter. They stood there for a heartbeat, two strangers on a moonlit terrace, staring into each other's souls.
For a second, she wanted to stay. She wanted to see who he was without the masks. But then she remembered the machines in Leo's room. She remembered the blood on her hands.
"You're chasing a shadow, signore," she whispered.
Her eyes darted past him. There, tucked under the shadow of the stone staircase, was a small, heavy oak door—a maintenance closet for the garden's irrigation system. It was narrow, weathered, and looked like it hadn't been opened in years.
She gave him one last, lingering look—a smirk that was half-devil and half-sorrow.
"Adieu, chéri." (Farewell Darling)