Embers

Chapter 7: A Fatal Encounter

The invitation arrived three days later.

A black envelope embossed with gold lettering contained a thick cream-colored invitation card. It wasn't printed. Every word had been written by hand with a fountain pen.

The handwriting was thin and rigid.

Luca's.

I recognized it instantly.

Four years had passed, yet he still pressed hard on the page and added that tiny hook at the beginning of every capital "I."

I never thought I'd see his handwriting again in this lifetime.

The invitation read:

Rossi Group Annual Charity Gala

November 12

The Metropolitan Museum of Art

7:00 PM

Beneath the printed details was an additional handwritten line.

"Miss Isabella, I hope you'll stay a little longer this time."

I stared at the words.

A chill crept down my spine.

Not fear.

It was the feeling of discovering that someone had entered a room before you'd even locked the door.

How did he know I would receive the invitation?

How did he know whether I would attend?

What made him so certain I would come?

The answer was simple.

He didn't know.

He was fishing.

The invitation was the bait.

I'd taken Lot 6, and for three weeks he'd been digging into my background. Aside from the information I'd intentionally allowed him to find, he'd uncovered nothing.

Luca Rossi wasn't accustomed to dead ends.

He was even less accustomed to losing to someone he couldn't figure out.

So he'd changed tactics.

No more digging.

Now he was luring.

I slipped the invitation into a drawer beside the bidding documents and went to take a shower.

When I came out, I found a message from Bobby.

"Heard the Rossi Group invited half of Wall Street to dinner tonight. Are you on the list? Should I bring a bulletproof vest?"

I didn't reply.

But I went.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art was even more beautiful at night than during the day.

Golden lights illuminated the fountain at the entrance. Water drifted through the cold air in silver mist.

A red carpet stretched across the stone steps.

Not the flashy scarlet of Hollywood premieres.

A deep crimson.

The color of dried blood.

Waiters in black uniforms stood at the entrance, checking invitations one by one.

I handed mine over.

The waiter glanced down. His expression didn't change, but his hand paused briefly.

"Ms. Moretti, this way, please."

He stepped aside.

"Mr. Rossi specifically requested that you be seated at the head table."

The head table.

I followed him through the Egyptian galleries.

A Twelfth Dynasty pharaoh watched from beneath the lights, his stone eyes narrowed, a faint and unreadable smile lingering at the corners of his mouth.

Beyond that was the Greco-Roman Hall.

Massive Corinthian columns rose toward the ceiling, split by the lighting into equal halves of shadow and gold.

My heels clicked against the marble floor.

Steady.

Measured.

Unhurried.

The gala was being held inside the Temple Gallery.

The Temple of Dendera.

The sandstone structure, dating back to 15 BC, had been transported intact into the museum's vast glass hall. Under soft blue lighting, the pale-yellow columns seemed to float above water.

Round tables filled the space before the temple.

Crystal stemware and silver cutlery gleamed coldly in the candlelight.

Most of the guests had already arrived.

The room was a sea of tailored suits and evening gowns.

Champagne and expensive perfume hung heavily in the air.

Then I saw him.

At the center of the head table.

His back to the temple.

Facing the entire room.

Luca Rossi stood as I approached.

Candlelight divided his face into shadow and gold.

Tonight he wore black instead of gray.

The top two buttons of his shirt remained undone, but a dark red pocket square now rested against his chest.

His gaze found mine.

One corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

Not quite a smile.

Not quite a challenge.

Something in between.

"Miss Moretti."

To my surprise, he personally pulled out the chair beside him.

"I didn't think you'd come."

"You have beautiful handwriting," I said as I sat down and accepted a glass of champagne from a waiter. "It's hard to refuse a handwritten invitation."

"My mother taught me."

A faint smile touched his lips.

"She said typing was an insult to the recipient."

"Then your mother had excellent taste."

"She's dead."

He said it casually.

Flatly.

As though he were commenting on the weather.

Then he raised his glass and gently tapped it against mine.

"Welcome."

I took a sip of champagne.

Before I could swallow, a hand settled on the back of my chair.

"So you're Isabella Moretti."

The voice belonged to a woman.

She wore a black satin gown with a plunging neckline and a platinum necklace set with an emerald the size of a thumb.

Blonde hair.

Blue eyes.

Full lips.

When she smiled, one corner of her mouth tilted upward, as though she were constantly amused by a private joke.

She couldn't have been older than twenty-five.

Yet she carried herself with the confidence of a woman twice that age.

"Carlotta Abbati."

She extended a hand, nude-pink nails gleaming beneath the lights.

"Legal counsel for the Rossi Group."

Her smile widened.

"I've heard all about you. The entire legal department has been talking about your bid."

I shook her hand.

Her fingertips were cool.

"I hope that's a good thing."

"Oh, definitely."

Carlotta settled into the seat on Luca's other side and casually moved her chair half an inch closer to him.

"Things have been painfully boring around here. We needed fresh blood."

She tilted her head.

"You don't mind if I sit here, do you?"

"Not at all."

Carlotta was the kind of woman who never needed help carrying a conversation.

She talked about the Brooklyn project.

Summer litigation.

A dress she'd purchased during Milan Fashion Week.

Her voice was pleasant.

Her smile effortless.

But her eyes never stopped studying me.

Not hostile.

Evaluating.

Like one cat observing another.

Luca contributed occasionally.

Mostly, he listened.

His hands rested on the table, fingers absently turning the base of his wine glass.

Twice I felt his gaze linger on me.

For no apparent reason.

It simply stayed.

I didn't look back.

Instead, I listened attentively as Carlotta described her dress.

Halfway through dinner, after the main course had been cleared away, the string ensemble began playing a piece I didn't recognize.

Part of the hall had been transformed into a dance floor.

Several couples were already dancing.

The lights dimmed.

Candle flames flickered softly in the darkness.

"Isabella."

Luca called my name.

Not Miss Moretti.

Isabella.

I turned toward him.

He was already standing.

One hand extended.

Palm up.

"Would you like to dance?"

I looked at him.

In the candlelight, there was something in his eyes I couldn't quite define.

Not tenderness.

Not attraction.

Curiosity.

The kind sparked by an intriguing puzzle.

The kind that makes someone want to open the box themselves and see what's hidden inside.

"Of course."

I placed my hand in his.

His fingers closed around mine.

Dry.

Strong.

Just like the first time he held my hand in Milan.

I locked the memory away before it could surface any further.

Buried it deep.

Then I rose and allowed him to lead me onto the dance floor.

The music was a slow waltz.

His hand settled against my lower back.

The pressure was perfect.

Not too much.

Not too little.

One of my hands rested on his shoulder.

Through the fabric of his jacket, I could feel the shape of his shoulder blade.

We completed half a turn.

Neither of us spoke.

"You investigated me."

It wasn't a question.

"Of course."

His voice rumbled above my head, touched with amusement.

"You stole a four-hundred-million-yuan project from me. If I didn't investigate you, people would assume I'd gone soft."

"And what did you find?"

"Nothing."

A pause.

"That's why I asked you to dance."

I looked up.

The candlelight flickered across his face.

His expression remained calm.

But there was something in his eyes.

The look of a hunter who believed he'd finally found a trail.

"You're a mystery, Miss Moretti."

His gaze held mine.

"I don't like mysteries."

"What are you going to do about it?"

He didn't answer.

The music shifted.

He spun me effortlessly before drawing me back into position.

"Your posture is unusual," he said.

My heart nearly stopped.

"You dance like someone who's done it many times before... but not recently."

For a split second, I almost froze.

That observation was far too close.

Dangerously close.

What had he noticed?

My footwork?

The way my hand rested on his shoulder?

The angle of my head during a turn?

"My father taught me."

My voice remained steady.

"I haven't danced much since he passed away."

"How did he die?"

"A car accident."

I held his gaze as I lied.

Didn't blink once.

His expression never changed.

He simply nodded.

As though he accepted the answer.

Or perhaps filed it away in a folder marked to be verified later.

The song was ending.

Suddenly, he leaned closer.

Far closer.

His lips hovered near my ear.

I caught the scent of his cologne.

Different from before.

He'd changed it.

Maybe his assistant chose it.

Maybe he had.

It didn't matter.

"Isabella."

His voice was soft.

His breath brushed my earlobe.

"I'm going to find out who you are."

A brief pause.

"Not because you took my project."

Another beat.

"It's because..."

Half a second passed.

"You remind me of someone."

The music ended.

He released my hand and stepped away.

The faint curve of his mouth wasn't a smile.

It felt more like a declaration of war.

"Don't leave after dinner."

He turned toward the head table.

"Dessert is coming."

Then, without looking back, he added:

"I had them prepare tiramisu specially. I heard it's your favorite."

I remained where I stood.

Watching him disappear into a sea of candlelight and tailored suits.

At a distant table, Carlotta observed me over the rim of her wine glass.

Thoughtful.

Silent.

A waiter passed carrying trays of tiramisu.

The cocoa powder looked like fine dust beneath the candles.

Luca wasn't wrong.

Tiramisu really was my favorite.

But there was a problem.

Avi liked tiramisu.

How did he know Isabella liked tiramisu?

I returned to my seat.

A faint smile tugged at my lips.

The gears in my mind were already turning.

When the dessert was placed before me, I took a bite.

Naturally.

Swallowed.

Naturally.

Then smiled at Luca.

Sweet.

Bitter.

And then nothing.

It tasted exactly like a lie.