Chapter 5: The Devil's Waltz

The taste of champagne turned to ash in my mouth. Across the grand ballroom of the Verano Estate, Alessandro cut through the glittering crowd like a knife through silk, his black tuxedo absorbing the light of a hundred crystal chandeliers. He was heading straight for me, and the predatory grace in his stride told me this conversation wouldn't wait.

My father's words from three hours ago still echoed in my skull: *"The Colombo family has a mole. Our last three shipments were compromised. We need Alessandro's reach, and he needs our legitimacy. This gala is the perfect stage for a truce—temporary, of course."*

Temporary. Like a bandage on a severed artery.

"Isabella." His voice was warm honey laced with venom. He extended his hand, and the gesture was both invitation and command. "You’re stunning tonight. Red suits your… fire."

I took his hand before I could stop myself. The heat of his palm seared through my gloves. "And you look like you’re about to start a war."

"War is already here, *tesoro*." He pulled me close, one hand settling on the small of my back, the other lifting our joined hands. "We just have to decide who’s left standing when it ends."

The orchestra swelled into a waltz, and he swept me into the dance before I could protest. Around us, the cream of Milanese society twirled in a blur of diamonds and silk—oblivious that two of the most dangerous people in the room were negotiating a ceasefire with every step.

"The traitor," I whispered, keeping my smile fixed. "Do you have a name?"

"Not yet. But I have a face." His grip tightened. "Someone who knows both our operations. Someone who was at that dinner three nights ago."

I stumbled. He caught me effortlessly, pulling me so close I could smell the bergamot and smoke on his collar. The music faded to a slow, aching rhythm.

"Twelve people," he continued, his lips brushing my ear. "Five of mine. Seven of yours. One of them will try to kill me before the night ends."

"Paranoid much?"

"Realistic." He spun me, and when I came back to him, his eyes had gone dark, volcanic. "And when they make their move, I need to know you're on my side. Not your father's. Not the family's. Mine."

My heart hammered against my ribs. The truce was supposed to be about finding the mole, not about choosing loyalties. But the way he looked at me—like I was both his salvation and his damnation—made my blood sing with dangerous possibility.

"I'm not anyone's," I said, the lie bitter on my tongue.

His laugh was low, intimate. "We'll see, Isabella. We'll see."

A flicker of movement caught my eye. A waiter, threading through the crowd with a silver tray of champagne flutes. His path was too direct, his focus too sharp. He was heading for Alessandro.

And beneath his white jacket, I saw the outline of something that wasn't a wine bottle.

Time fractured.

"Down!" I screamed, shoving Alessandro with all my strength. The bullet tore through the air where his chest had been a second before, shattering a champagne tower behind us. Glass exploded into a thousand glittering shards.

The orchestra screeched to a halt. Screams erupted.

But I was already moving. The waiter had drawn a second weapon—a sleek black pistol—and was aiming again. Alessandro was still on the ground, reaching for the gun strapped to his ankle.

I didn't think. I just threw myself in front of him, my body a shield, my heart a wild drumbeat.

The shot never came.

Alessandro rose like a demon from hell, his own pistol smoking. The waiter crumpled, a perfect hole between his eyes. The ballroom erupted into chaos—women screaming, men shouting, security swarming.

But all I could see was Alessandro, his chest heaving, his eyes locked on mine with a fury that had nothing to do with the dead man at our feet.

"You stupid, reckless woman," he snarled, grabbing my shoulders. His grip was bruising, desperate. "Do you have any idea what you just did?"

"I saved your life."

"You *sacrificed* yours!" He shook me, once, hard. "You think that bullet was meant for me? It was meant for *you*. I was just the bait. And your father—" He stopped, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

"My father?" The words came out strangled.

Alessandro pulled me into the shadows of a marble column, his body boxing me in. His voice was barely a whisper, but it cut through the sirens wailing outside like a blade.

"The traitor is your father's right hand. Enzo. He's been feeding information to the Rossetti family for months. And tonight's assassination wasn't aimed at the Colombo heir." He paused, letting the weight of his words crash over me. "It was aimed at the girl who was supposed to be at his side tonight. The girl who was going to become his wife."

The floor tilted. "That's impossible. Enzo's been with us—"

"He was with your mother first. Before she died." Alessandro's eyes were merciless. "He blames your father for her death. And he's been waiting years for the perfect revenge. You were it, Isabella. You were the bullet he wanted to fire."

Gunfire crackled outside. More screams. His security team was engaging unseen enemies.

"I need you to trust me," Alessandro said, his forehead pressing against mine. "I know I'm the monster in your fairy tale. I know you think I'm the devil. But right now, I'm the only one who can keep you alive."

"Trust you?" I laughed, hollow and broken. "You just told me my entire life was built on a lie."

"And in five minutes, it could be over." He cupped my face, his thumb tracing the tear I didn't know I'd shed. "But I've been looking for you my whole life, Isabella. And I'm not about to lose you to the ghosts of your father's sins."

Another gunshot. Closer this time.

"Choose," he said, his voice a brand against my skin. "Choose me, or choose to die alone in this ballroom full of snakes."

And the truth slammed into me with the force of a freight train: I was already falling.

"Where do we run?" I whispered.

His smile was a slash of wicked triumph. "We don't run, *tesoro*. We hunt."

He grabbed my hand and pulled me through the chaos, past the overturned tables and the crying debutantes, out through the servant's entrance and into the cold Milan night.

Behind us, the Verano Estate erupted in flames.

And in the darkness, his grip on my hand never faltered.