Chapter 2: The rose and the mask
548 Words
Palermo, 1983. Evening.
A masquerade was a lie sanctioned by music and wine.
Isabella adjusted the pearl-tipped pins in her carefully coiffed hair, her reflection dancing in the floor-length mirror of the rented suite above Via Maqueda. The gown—silken crimson, with a slit scandalous enough to inspire suspicion—was not hers. The Cartier necklace around her neck? Paste. The name on her forged invitation?
Contessa Fiore di Lucca.
She practiced it once more in front of the mirror, her voice laced with the vague haughtiness of money and European boarding schools. Then she picked up her mask—black lace and feathers—and fastened it in place.
It was time.
—
The grand foyer of Palazzo Vescari glowed with chandeliers and laughter. Men in tuxedos and masks made to resemble wolves and stags milled about, their champagne flutes brimming. Women glided across the marble floors like butterflies with secrets.
Isabella swept in on the arm of a minor banking heir she’d charmed two days prior in a café. He looked proud. She looked dangerous.
All was going to plan.
“Fiore,” he said, brushing her gloved hand with his lips. “Allow me to introduce you to Signor Angelo. Shipping. Very influential.”
She smiled at the older man, who wore a silver fox mask and tried to hide the lust in his eyes. It always worked this way—her act, her allure. No one ever looked past the velvet gloves and practiced giggle.
But someone did.
Across the room, leaning against a column half-shrouded in shadow, stood a man watching her.
His mask was simple: black satin with no ornament. Yet his eyes—piercing and curious—cut through the room like headlights in fog.
Isabella felt her spine tighten.
Dante Moretti didn’t know her name. Not yet.
But as she turned away, pretending not to notice, she felt his gaze follow her like a sniper’s scope.
—
Later, on the terrace overlooking the bay, she took a breath of the salty Sicilian air. The con games always left her feeling empty afterward. Like beauty stretched over rot.
“You don’t drink?”
The voice was deep. Familiar only from rumors.
She turned. Dante stood behind her, a glass of scotch in one hand and a half-smile on his lips. No mask. He didn’t need one.
“It dulls the senses,” she said coolly. “And I find clarity so rare these days.”
Dante chuckled, slow and low. “A woman who favors honesty at a masquerade?”
She tilted her head. “Perhaps I lie in other ways.”
He stepped closer, his scent all leather and smoke. “What’s your name?”
“Fiore,” she lied, expertly.
“A rose,” he said. “Delicate. Poisonous.”
She didn’t answer. He didn’t need one.
They stared at each other in the glow of golden lamps. Two wolves in borrowed finery, both pretending to be something they were not.
And then, as music drifted from inside, Dante offered his hand.
“Dance with me.”
Isabella hesitated. Just long enough for fate to sigh.
Then she placed her fingers in his.
Some lies taste sweet at first.
But truth waits in the shadows, patient and cruel.
- Writer
