The humidity of the Velvet Room was thick enough to taste, a cloying mix of expensive bourbon, French perfume, and the metallic tang of unspoken threats.
Elena Rossi didn't belong here. She knew it by the way her vintage heels felt a fraction too loud against the marble, and by the way her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She was a woman of quiet libraries and flour-dusted aprons, not a shadow in the playground of the elite. But her brother's gambling debts had a way of turning quiet lives into collateral.
"Just one night, El," her brother, Leo, had hissed, shoving the invitation into her hand. "Just hand the envelope to the man in the silver mask. That's it. Then we're clear. I'm clear."
So, she stood by the bar, her fingers trembling as they gripped a glass of sparkling water she didn't want. She wore a mask of intricate black lace that stung her skin, hiding eyes that were wide with a terror she hoped looked like mystery.
Then, the air in the room shifted.
It wasn't a sound, but a sudden silence that rippled from the entrance. The crowd parted like a dark sea, and he stepped through.
He didn't wear a silver mask. He wore one of deep, obsidian iron that covered the upper half of his face, leaving only a sharp, stubbled jawline and a mouth set in a grim, cruel line. He was tall—impossibly so—wrapped in a charcoal suit that cost more than Elena's entire education.
"Dante Moretti," a woman whispered nearby, her voice a mix of lust and genuine fear. "The Ghost of Chicago."
Elena's breath hitched. Moretti. The name was a curse in the city. They weren't just mafia; they were the architects of the city's darkness.
Dante didn't look at the starlets or the politicians. His gaze, visible through the slits of the iron mask, scanned the room with the predatory efficiency of a wolf. And then, he stopped.
He was looking at her.
Elena should have run. Every instinct screamed at her to bolt for the fire exit. Instead, she felt rooted to the floor. As he approached, the heat radiating from him was palpable. He didn't speak; he simply held out a gloved hand.
It wasn't a request. It was an order.
The music shifted to a slow, haunting cello arrangement. Elena placed her hand in his, shocked by how small her fingers looked against his palm. He pulled her close—too close. One hand settled on the small of her back, the heat of his touch searing through the thin silk of her dress.
"You're trembling," he said. His voice was a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated in Elena's chest.
"It's cold in here," she lied, her voice breathless.
A ghost of a smirk touched his lips. "Liars are common in this room. But you... you're a bad one. Your pulse is hitting your neck like a hammer."
He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "Who sent you, little bird? Was it the Russians? Or is your father desperate enough to use his daughter as bait?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Elena whispered, the envelope in her clutch feeling like a lead weight.
"Good," Dante murmured, his grip tightening as he spun her into the shadows of a velvet-curtained alcove, away from the prying eyes of the ballroom. "I prefer the quiet ones. They have more to hide."
The dance wasn't a dance anymore. It was a confrontation. Dante steered her deeper into the dim corners of the club, his eyes never leaving hers. There was a hunger there—not just for information, but something primal, something he seemed to hate himself for feeling.
"I have something for you," Elena managed to say, her courage flickering like a dying candle.
She reached into her bag and pulled out the envelope. Dante took it, but he didn't look at it. He tossed it onto a side table without breaking eye contact.
"Business can wait," he growled. "Tonight, the city is burning outside these walls, and I am tired of blood."
He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw, tilting her head back. Elena knew she should push him away. She knew who he was—a man who broke lives for breakfast. But in the dim light, with the scent of sandalwood and danger surrounding her, she felt a terrifying pull. She was a moth, and he was the most beautiful flame she had ever seen.
"Tell me your name," he commanded.
"No," she whispered. "No names."
Dante's eyes darkened. A flash of something—regret? desire?—crossed his features. "Fine. No names. Just tonight."
He leaned in, and when his lips finally met hers, it wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a claim. It was the beginning of a disaster that would last a hundred chapters. It was the night Elena Rossi ceased to be an innocent bystander and became the woman who would bring a King to his knees.
But as he led her toward the private elevator, neither of them knew that one night of reckless escape would forge a bond of blood. Neither knew that in nine months, the hatred they felt for their own weakness would be the only thing keeping them alive.
The elevator doors closed, sealing their fate.