Chapter 10 -NADIA
956 Words
Forty-eight hours.
In the hospital, forty-eight hours was the window we watched most closely after surgery. The critical period. The time when complications either surfaced or faded, when the body decided whether it would heal or fail.
Now, forty-eight hours was all I had before my life became irreversible.
The Snow estate no longer felt like a mausoleum. It had been transformed into a stage, every corridor polished and lit for performance. White lilies lined the marble banisters, their sweet scent cloying and heavy. Wedding flowers, funeral flowers. In this world, the distinction hardly mattered.
Staff moved with military precision. Armed guards blended seamlessly with waiters carrying silver trays of champagne. Every corner held a whisper of danger disguised as elegance.
I stood in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom, barely recognizing the woman staring back.
The red dress clung to me like a second skin. Heavy velvet, deep crimson, severe and commanding from the front. From behind, it dipped low, exposing my spine like a deliberate provocation. It was not a doctor’s dress. It was not Nadia Snow, neurosurgeon.
It was Nadia Snow, heiress.
Armor, I reminded myself. This was armor.
I lifted my chin and studied my reflection the way I studied patients. Objectively. Critically. The stormy eyes were still mine. The hands that saved lives were still steady. Whatever they tried to turn me into tonight, they would not erase me completely.
A knock sounded at the door, sharp and hesitant.
“Come in.”
Mikhail stepped inside, awkward in his tuxedo, as if the fabric itself rejected him. He carried a velvet box in his hands, his expression tense.
“Father wants you to wear these,” he said. “The Snow emeralds.”
I did not turn around. “I already feel like I’m wearing enough chains, Mikhail.”
He sighed and crossed the room, setting the box on the vanity. “This isn’t the night to make a statement.”
“This entire arrangement is a statement,” I replied quietly. “Just not one I agreed to.”
“Nadia,” he lowered his voice, “the Sokolovs are here. The De Santis delegation is here. Luca’s father is already asking questions. You need to look like you belong.”
I finally met his gaze in the mirror. “I do belong. I just don’t belong to them.”
His jaw tightened. “He’s waiting for you. At the top of the stairs.”
“Then let him wait.”
Mikhail hesitated, then nodded once and left without another word.
I took one last breath, adjusted the weight of the dress on my shoulders, and stepped into the hallway.
The music reached me before the ballroom did. Violins. Soft, controlled, deliberate. The sound of money and power. As I reached the balcony overlooking the grand staircase, I saw him.
Luca stood at the base of the stairs, bourbon in hand, surrounded by men who laughed too easily and watched too carefully. Even among them, he dominated the space without effort. Dark suit. Relaxed posture. Predator at ease in his territory.
When he looked up and saw me, the room seemed to shift.
His gaze traveled slowly, deliberately, from the hem of my dress to my face. For a split second, the Don vanished. I saw the man from the hotel room. The wounded stranger. The man who had watched me with quiet awe while bleeding out on silk sheets.
Then the mask slid back into place.
He handed his glass to a waiter and moved toward the stairs. Conversations fell silent as he stopped at the bottom step and extended his hand.
“You’re late, Princess,” he said, his voice smooth enough to carry.
“I arrive when I choose,” I replied as I descended. I did not take his hand until I reached the final step.
The moment our fingers touched, heat surged through me. Not fear. Not comfort. Awareness.
He leaned closer, his lips brushing my temple as cameras flashed and eyes watched.
“Smile,” he murmured. “They want to see if you’ll crack.”
“I don’t crack,” I whispered back. “I cut.”
His mouth curved slightly as we turned toward the crowd.
As we moved into the ballroom together, I felt the weight of every stare. Alliances being measured. Threats being calculated. Across the room, men I had read about in sealed intelligence files raised glasses in silent acknowledgment.
Luca kept his hand at my back, not possessive, not tender. Strategic.
“You wear red well,” he said quietly.
“You ordered it.”
“I suggested it.”
“I noticed.”
His gaze flicked to me. “You’re angry.”
“I’m surrounded by people who profit from violence and call it tradition. What do you think?”
“I think you’re braver than most,” he replied. “They’re terrified of you.”
I scoffed. “They’re terrified of losing control.”
“That too.”
We stopped near a cluster of dignitaries. Luca greeted them with practiced ease, introducing me as if this were the most natural thing in the world. I played my role, nodded when required, smiled when necessary, all while counting exits and tracking movement.
As the music softened and conversations resumed, my eyes scanned the room out of habit. Assessing exits. Reading faces. Cataloging threats.
And then I saw him.
Across the ballroom, near the far archway, stood a man who didn’t belong here. His suit was too plain. His posture too familiar.
A face from Chicago.
My stomach dropped.
My past and my present were about to collide in a way that even I couldn’t fix.
- Writer
