(Isabella’s POV)
The silence in the private gallery was a living thing, thick and suffocating. Vittorio Bianchi stood in the doorway, a benevolent smile on his lips that didn't reach his eyes. Those eyes, a pale, washed-out blue, held a look of cold, absolute, and chillingly patient understanding. The world tilted on its axis. He knew. He had known who I was the entire time. The ball wasn't just a display of his power; it was the web, and I was the fly that had just stumbled stupidly into its center.
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” he repeated, his voice a smooth, cultured purr as he gestured toward my father’s stolen Botticelli. “It has a… tragic history. The previous owner, a man of some influence in Chicago, met a rather fiery end. A terrible accident, you understand.”
My blood ran cold
