Antonio's POV:

Power is an illusion.

The strongest men in this world are not the ones who hold the most wealth, nor the ones with the most blood on their hands. No, the real power belongs to those who control perception. To those who make others believe they are untouchable.

That was what tonight was about.

A show of force.

A reminder that Antonio Bianchi was still standing, still ruling, despite the attempt on my life.

The last gala had been a battlefield, my empire nearly shattered in a storm of bullets and fire. But the attackers had failed. I was still breathing. And tonight, I would make sure they knew it.

The Bianchi name would not be weakened. Not now. Not ever.

The attack on the last gala had shaken my empire, but not because of the bloodshed. That much was expected in this world. What had unraveled me was the precision. The way my enemy moved, how they struck where it hurt the most—not just in bullets and fire, but in uncertainty.

Someone had orchestrated that massacre as if they knew me. Truly knew me.

They had left no real trail. No name, no face, nothing but whispers in the dark.

But ghosts make mistakes.

And tonight, I would drag this one into the light.

I adjusted the cuffs of my black suit as I stood at the top of the grand staircase, surveying the ballroom below. Crystal chandeliers bathed the space in golden light, illuminating the sea of guests that had gathered for my spectacle. They drank, they laughed, they whispered among themselves—all of them playing their parts in this grand performance.

But I wasn't here to celebrate.

I am here to hunt.

The chandeliers blazed overhead, casting golden light over a sea of guests, their laughter and clinking glasses filling the vast ballroom with the illusion of normalcy. Music played, smooth and rhythmic, blending seamlessly with the hum of quiet conversations, whispered deals, and veiled threats. The men were draped in the finest suits, their hands wrapped around crystal glasses of champagne or curled possessively around the women they paraded like trophies. The women were wrapped in silk and diamonds, their dresses cut dangerously low, their perfume thick enough to mask the scent of tension in the air.

But no one here was really relaxed.

Not after what had happened.

Not after the blood that had been spilled the last time I held an event like this.

My presence alone was enough to remind them that I had survived, but that wasn't enough. No, I needed more than just their respect tonight. I needed certainty.

Because somewhere in this room, my attacker was here too.

Watching. 

Waiting.

And I was going to find them.

I adjusted the cuffs of my suit as I stood at the top of the grand staircase, my gaze sweeping the room like a predator surveying his territory. I could already see the shifting eyes of the men who wanted me dead but didn't dare try again. The subtle stiffness in their shoulders, the way their laughter fell too easily, too forced.

They feared me.

Good.

I descended the steps with slow, deliberate movements, my polished shoes clicking against the marble with each step. My men were already positioned throughout the room, strategically placed near exits, keeping watch. If the ghost who had tried to kill me was here, there would be no escape this time.

A waiter passed by, offering me a glass of champagne. I ignored it. I needed my mind sharp tonight.

"Antonio."

I barely turned my head at the sound of my name.

Sofia.

She stood at the edge of the ballroom, a vision in black silk, her arms crossed, a glass of bourbon in her hand instead of wine or champagne like the other women. Always different. Always watching me the same way I watched everyone else.

"You really think they'll come?" she asked, her voice laced with amusement, but her eyes sharp, assessing.

"They're already here," I murmured.

Her gaze flickered across the crowd, her smirk shifting into something more thoughtful. "You're sure?"

I took a slow breath, letting my instincts settle. "I know."

She let out a quiet hum, tilting her head slightly. "You have a plan?"

I didn't answer.

Sofia knew me well enough to understand that this was my plan. This entire night—the grandeur, the wealth, the arrogance of hosting another gala so soon after my near execution—was a carefully laid trap.

The person who had tried to kill me was watching.

And tonight, they were going to reveal themselves.

The music swelled, the violins taking on a deeper, more haunting tone. My eyes swept across the room again, cataloging faces, expressions, movements.

And then I saw her.

A flash of red.

At first, it was nothing. A woman in a red dress, standing near the center of the ballroom. But something about the way she held herself made the air in my lungs still.

The silk of her gown clung to her like liquid fire, the deep crimson color so rich it was almost black beneath the low, flickering light of the chandeliers. Her mask was delicate, gold-lined, covering only her eyes, leaving her lips exposed. Full. Painted a deep, blood-red that matched her dress.

Something about her presence felt... off.

I knew most of the guests here—knew their faces, their families, their alliances. But her? She was unfamiliar.

Yet, at the same time...

A strange sensation curled in my chest, like recognition without understanding.

She was watching me.

Not like the others, who glanced and whispered before looking away.

She was studying me.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt the faintest chill of something I couldn't name.

The music slowed, deepened.

My heartbeat did the opposite.

I took a step forward, my movements smooth, controlled, but my body tense with an anticipation I didn't fully understand.

Sofia's voice was low beside me. "Who is she?"

"I don't know."

But I was about to find out.

ƗşøƁȺɭɭɐ-ɳøȢɇ

"The letters shift unnaturally, as if they were never meant to exist in the same space. They twist and contort, their edges jagged like something carved into stone by an unsteady hand. Looking at them for too long gives the eerie sensation that they are watching you instead. A name lost, a presence erased—something that should be gone, but refuses to stay buried."

The invitation had been expected.

Antonio Bianchi was not the kind of man to suffer a loss in silence. He had nearly been killed during the last attack, and now, mere weeks later, he was holding another gala—this time, under the guise of rebuilding, of reaffirming his power.

It was a trap.

And I walked into it willingly.

Dressed in blood-red silk, my movements were slow, calculated. The fabric clung to my frame like liquid, each step making me a part of the shadows, a flicker of light in a sea of power-hungry men and their oblivious playthings.

The mask covered most of my face—an elegant, gold-lined design that only exposed my mouth and chin. A wig of dark waves cascaded down my back, hiding what lay underneath. I had spent hours perfecting this disguise, ensuring that even those who had once known me—once loved me—would see nothing but another nameless woman in the crowd.

The weight of my presence here was crushing.

The last time I had stood in this estate, I had been someone else. Someone softer. Someone naive enough to believe in love. But that girl was gone, swallowed by the fire Antonio had lit the moment he put a bullet through my father's skull.

And now, I was here to return the favor.

The ballroom was stunning, of course. Antonio spared no expense when it came to displays of dominance. Crystal chandeliers bathed the space in a golden glow, music hummed softly beneath the chatter of men in suits and women draped in jewels. Wine flowed like water. Every guest here was either loyal to Antonio or desperate to be.

I did not belong among them.

And yet, I smiled.

I laughed when an unfamiliar man whispered something in my ear, his breath reeking of wine and arrogance. I swayed when he took my hand, letting him lead me across the dance floor. I played my part to perfection.

But my eyes never left Antonio.

He stood near the grand staircase, his frame strong, unyielding. He looked unbothered, as if the last attack had been nothing but a minor inconvenience. But I knew him. I had spent too many time watching him, loving him, to not see the cracks.

He was waiting for something.

No—he was waiting for someone.

A cold thrill ran down my spine.

Had he expected me to come?

No, I had been careful. Impossible to trace. The attacker and Isabella were not the same. The attacker had no past, no name. She was a phantom.

Isabella was dead.

And yet...

The way Antonio's gaze swept across the room, the careful tension in his shoulders—he felt something.

He didn't know it yet, but he felt me.

I drifted closer to the center of the room, my gloved fingers trailing across the edges of a silver tray as I plucked a flute of champagne from a passing server.

"Beautiful dress."

I turned my head, offering a polite smile to the man who had spoken. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp, intelligent eyes.

"Thank you," I murmured, sipping my drink.

His gaze lingered. "You look familiar."

I let out a soft, practiced laugh. "Do I?"

There was a beat of silence before he nodded, his expression unreadable. "Yes. But I can't quite place it."

I tilted my head, feigning curiosity. "Perhaps in another life."

I kept moving, weaving through the sea of bodies, each step bringing me closer to Antonio.

The music changed.

A slower, more deliberate melody took over the room, and the lights dimmed slightly. A shift in atmosphere.

Something was coming.

I felt it before I understood it.

Then, suddenly, Antonio moved.

Not toward me. Not yet. But his posture changed, and in that moment, I knew.

He had found something.

He had set his trap, and it was beginning to tighten.

The chandeliers cast long, twisting shadows as the music reached a haunting crescendo. The warmth of the ballroom became suffocating. My pulse drummed against my ribs, but outwardly, I remained still.

Antonio took a step forward.

The air in the room shifted.

Every muscle in my body tensed.

And then—

"Stop the music."

Antonio's voice cut through the air like a knife, and the entire room stilled. The violins screeched into silence, the murmur of conversation dying instantly.

I didn't move.

Not yet.

Antonio's men appeared at the edges of the room, closing in subtly, their presence sending a ripple of unease through the crowd.

Then his voice came again, this time smoother, but just as deadly.

"There's a ghost among us tonight."

A chill ran down my spine, my grip tightening around the fragile stem of my glass.

No.

He couldn't know.

He couldn't.

Could he?

Antonio took another step forward, his eyes scanning the crowd.

He was searching.

Hunting.

And then, his gaze landed on me.

My breath caught.

The moment stretched unbearably, a pull of something deep and dangerous crackling between us.

His lips parted, his brows drawing together ever so slightly.

Recognition.

But it wasn't possible.

I had buried Isabella.

The attacker was not Isabella.

And yet, as Antonio took another step toward me, something inside me shifted.

I had spent months becoming someone else. I had erased my past, forged a new identity, stripped myself of the weaknesses that had once bound me.

But here, in this moment—his eyes on mine, suspicion curling at the edges of his sharp features—I felt her.

The girl I used to be.

The girl I killed.

Antonio's lips parted, his voice low, dangerous.

"You."

My heartbeat thundered in my ears.

He took another step.

And another.

I could run. I could pull the knife strapped to my thigh, slit the throat of the man closest to me, and vanish into the night before anyone could stop me.

But I didn't move.

I couldn't move.

Not when Antonio was standing before me, his breath warm against my skin, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

He knew.

He didn't know how.

Not yet.

But he knew.

The ballroom was silent. The world had collapsed to just the two of us.

Antonio reached up, fingers ghosting over the edge of my mask.

A breath.

A single moment suspended in time.

And then—

The mask began to slip.

My wig shifted.

The silk unraveled.

My identity—

Exposed.

I barely had time to react before Antonio's breath caught in his throat.

Before his lips parted, his voice a whisper—

"No..."

And then—

Darkness.