4 | CRIMSON AND GLASS
1672 Words
POV BRIELLE
The dress was a scream in a room full of whispers. It was a deep, visceral shade of blood-red silk that clung to every curve I had spent years trying to hide. It had no back, just a series of delicate gold chains that bit into my skin, reminding me with every movement that I was bound to someone else’s whim.
I stood in front of the vanity, my fingers trembling as I applied a layer of dark lipstick. I looked like a stranger. This wasn't Brielle Moretti, the girl who worried about rent and her father’s gambling debts. This was a weapon.
“A bit late for cold feet, isn’t it?”
Roman’s voice came from the doorway. He was dressed in a black tuxedo that made him look devastatingly handsome and infinitely more lethal. He looked at me through the mirror, his gaze traveling slowly down the length of my body. It wasn't the look of a man admiring a woman; it was the look of a man inspecting his most prized acquisition.
“I’m not afraid of the feet, Roman. I’m afraid of the company I’m keeping,” I said, turning to face him.
He walked toward me, the heavy thud of his boots on the hardwood floor echoing the frantic rhythm of my heart. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a velvet box. Inside lay a necklace of raw diamonds, jagged and sharp, catching the dim light like shards of ice.
“Turn around,” he commanded.
I obeyed, my skin prickling as he stepped into my personal space. His hands were cold as he draped the heavy stones around my neck. His fingers lingered on the nape of my neck, grazing the gold chains of the dress. I shivered, and I hated myself for it.
“The Petrovs are old school,” he murmured near my ear. “They value two things: loyalty and optics. Tonight, you are the optics. If you falter, if you look like a victim, they will smell blood. And in that room, blood is the only currency they accept.”
“And what do you get out of this?” I asked, looking at him over my shoulder. “Besides a trophy for the evening?”
“I get to see who flinches first,” he said, his eyes darkening. “Your father’s friends will be there. They need to see that the Moretti name now belongs to the Volkovs. It’s a message, Brielle. And you are the ink.”
The Gala was held at a private estate in the Gold Coast, a sprawling limestone mansion that looked more like a museum than a home. As the SUV pulled up to the red carpet, the flashbulbs of the waiting photographers felt like physical stabs. Roman stepped out first, extending a hand to me.
For a second, I stared at it. That hand had ordered deaths. That hand had bruised my lip. But as the cameras clicked and the crowd hummed with curiosity, I realized I had no choice. I reached out and took it.
His grip was firm, possessive. He pulled me close to his side, his arm winding around my waist as if he were afraid I might bolt—or as if he wanted everyone to know exactly where his hands were allowed to be.
The ballroom was a sea of black ties and shimmering gowns, but as we entered, a localized silence followed us. It was like a ripple in water. People stopped talking, their heads turning in synchronized slow motion. I felt like an animal in a zoo, or a ghost haunting my own life.
“Smile, Brielle,” Roman whispered through gritted teeth, his lips barely moving. “You look like you’re going to a hanging.”
“I am,” I whispered back. “Mine.”
He led me toward a group of older men standing near a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. I recognized one of them—Enzo Rossi. He was a man my father had called 'brother' for twenty years. I felt a surge of hope. Surely, if I looked him in the eye, if I signaled for help—
“Roman! You’re late,” Enzo boomed, stepping forward. His eyes flicked to me, widening for a fraction of a second before hardening into a mask of polite indifference.
“The lady required some… preparation,” Roman said, his hand tightening on my waist. “I believe you remember Brielle. Marco’s daughter.”
Enzo smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. It was the smile of a man who had already decided I was a casualty of war. “Of course. A tragedy, what happened with her father. Shameful.”
“Shameful indeed,” Roman agreed. “But as you can see, I’m taking very good care of his legacy.”
I waited for Enzo to say something. To ask if I was okay. To offer me a way out. Instead, he simply raised his glass to Roman. “A wise move. It’s always better to keep the assets close.”
The word assets burned in my throat. I looked at the men around me—men who had eaten at my dinner table, men who had given me birthday gifts—and realized they weren't seeing a girl. They were seeing a liability that Roman had successfully neutralized.
The night became a blur of champagne that tasted like ash and conversations that felt like minefields. Roman never let go of me. He paraded me through the room like a captured banner. I saw the pity in some women's eyes and the hunger in the men's, but mostly, I saw the truth: I was alone.
Near midnight, Roman was pulled away by a high-ranking member of the Commission. He leaned in, kissing my cheek in a way that felt like a threat. “Stay at the bar. Viktor is watching. Don’t make me come looking for you.”
I watched him walk away, his presence still looming over me even from across the room. I slipped away to the far end of the bar, my head spinning. I needed air. I needed to not be this version of myself for five minutes.
“He’s going to kill him, you know.”
The voice was low, coming from a man sitting in the shadows of the velvet-curtained alcove next to the bar. I turned, my heart leaping. It was a younger man, maybe in his thirties, with a sharp face and nervous eyes.
“What?” I whispered.
“Your father,” the man said, not looking at me. “Roman isn’t waiting for him to come out of hiding. He’s already sent the cleaners to Cabo. Tonight was just a distraction to keep the heat off his men while they finish the job.”
The world tilted. “How do you know that?”
“Because I’m the one who leaked your father’s location,” he said, finally looking at me. There was no remorse in his eyes, only survival. “Roman paid me more than your father ever could. But I thought you should know. He’s not using you as bait, Brielle. He’s using you as an alibi. If he’s here with you, in public, he can’t be the one pulling the trigger three thousand miles away.”
My stomach turned. The diamonds around my neck felt like they were choking me. Roman hadn't been waiting. He had been playing with me, enjoying the psychological torture while he systematically erased the only family I had left.
I turned and saw Roman across the room. He was laughing at something another man said, but his eyes were locked on me. He knew. He knew I was talking to someone. He knew exactly what was happening.
He started walking toward me, his pace slow and deliberate. Every step he took felt like a nail in my father’s coffin.
I didn't think. I grabbed a steak knife from a nearby catering tray, hiding it against the silk of my skirt. My vision was tunneling. I was going to do it. I was going to end this right here, in front of everyone.
Roman reached me just as I backed into the alcove. He stepped inside the velvet curtains, shielding us from the view of the ballroom.
“Who were you talking to, Brielle?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft.
“You’re a liar,” I choked out, my hand trembling as I gripped the knife handle. “You sent them to Cabo. You’re killing him tonight.”
Roman didn't deny it. He didn't even blink. He just stepped closer, pinning me against the wall. “I told you, Brielle. I don't waste energy on things I intend to destroy. Your father was a dead man the moment he touched my money. Did you really think I’d let him live?”
“I’ll kill you,” I hissed, bringing the knife up.
He didn't flinch. He grabbed my wrist, his strength overwhelming, and forced the knife down. But he didn't take it away. He pressed my hand—and the blade—against his own throat.
“Do it,” he dared me, his eyes burning with a dark, terrifying lust. “Kill me in a room full of my peers. Let them see the ‘asset’ strike back. But know this: if I die tonight, my men have orders to burn that house in Queens with your cousin inside it before my body is even cold.”
I froze. The tip of the knife was pricking the skin of his neck. A single bead of blood bloomed against his white collar.
Roman leaned down, his lips almost touching mine. I could smell the champagne and the cold metallic scent of his soul.
“So tell me, Brielle,” he whispered, his grip on my wrist tightening until I gasped. “Are you a murderer, or are you just my shadow?”
- Writer
