Rain pattered lightly against the tinted windows of the limousine as it snaked through Milan’s backstreets. Rose sat on one side of the plush seat, legs crossed, face unreadable. Beside her, Marcello adjusted the cuff of his suit, his sharp gaze never leaving the tinted glass. He was always watching. Always calculating. Tonight wasn’t about Cassian or Lorenzo. It was about power.
They were headed to the annual Galleoni Gala—an underground masquerade attended only by the elite of Milan's hidden society. Corrupt officials, black market kings, whispered financiers. And tonight, Rose would walk into their den, not as a ghost, not as a woman scorned, but as a player.
“I don’t like it,” Marcello muttered. “Too many snakes under one roof. And you, wearing red? You’ll be a damn bullseye.”
Rose
