The Victory Gala was not just a party; it was a declaration of war disguised as a celebration. The air in the grand ballroom of the Costa estate was thick with the scent of expensive lilies, aged scotch, and the electric hum of dangerous men talking business.
I stood at the top of the marble staircase, looking down at the sea of black tuxedos and designer gowns. I wasn't the girl who had arrived here in fear months ago. I was wearing a gown of midnight-blue silk, so dark it was almost black, with a neckline that plunged dangerously low and a slit that reached my upper thigh. Around my neck sat the "Russo Tears"—a necklace of black diamonds that felt like cold fire against my skin. My hair was swept back into a sleek, severe crown, and my lips were painted the color of dried blood.
"You l
