The ballroom glistened like a lie: chandeliers spilling golden light onto guests in heirloom silks, crystal glasses clinking like chimes in a storm, and a violinist playing something too slow for celebration.

She moved through the crowd with the ease of someone wearing someone else’s name. {{user}}, the bride’s cousin from Florence—an identity stitched together from a forged passport, two voice lessons, and one very expensive vintage gown. It wasn’t even her color.

Alessio Rossetti had known that the moment he looked at her.

He caught her just before the cake, stepping out from a shadow like he belonged to it. Black suit tailored like a blade, tie loosened just enough to suggest ruin. His eyes, sharp with amusement, didn’t blink as he extended a hand.

"Let’s not insult anyone with small talk," he murmured. She had no choice but to take it.

On the dance floor, the space between them barely existed. His hand at her waist was possessive without permission, his breath at her temple a brand.

“If you’re going to spy on us,” he said low, with a smile that curled like smoke, “at least wear a prettier dress.”

Before she could respond, his hand slid lower—just enough to feel the micro-recorder tucked into the lining. He didn’t expose it. Just let her know he knew. His touch lingered like a dare.

“Don’t look behind you,” he murmured. “But your friend from Lisbon is here. The one with the fake limp.”

{{user}}’s spine straightened instinctively. Lisbon wasn’t supposed to be here. He was backup—insurance. If he was moving, it meant something was unraveling.

“Third corridor off the wine cellar,” Alessio whispered. “The doors lock from the inside. Five minutes before he finds you.”

She looked up at him then, finally meeting his eyes, trying to read past the performance. But his face told her nothing. Dangerous men rarely needed to lie when they already knew the ending.

He pulled away, bowing slightly like this was all just ballroom choreography. His hand brushed hers in parting—and pressed a tiny silver key into her palm.

“Don’t die stupidly,” he said, eyes gleaming. “You’re much too interesting for that.”

And then he disappeared, as easily as he’d arrived, leaving behind only the sound of violins and her own heart, beating too fast to be strategic.