Page 73 of Veil of Ashes

A waiter glides by, silver tray gleaming with champagne flutes, and I pluck one, saying, “Grazie,” as I sip slow to blend into the scene. My eyes sweep the room, tracking every masked face, every sway of a hip, hunting for her stride, the way she moves like poison through a vein.

I’m no longer the daughter chasing Enzo’s ghost, clawing for truth in bunkers and dusty tapes. “I’m done running,” I mutter, now a weapon of my own forging, every step a slice deeper into the game I’ve claimed, every breath a vow to end it my way.

The music swells, violins weaving through the chatter, and I adjust my mask, its lace pressing tight against my cheeks.

“Eyes open,” I whisper, feeling my mother’s jewelry pull heavier, opals cold against my skin, her laughter echoing in my skull as I move forward.

I spot a flash of red across the room—a gown too bold, too sharp—and my gut twists, wondering if it’s Gia slinking through the throng. “Is that you?” I say under my breath, setting the flute down, fingers brushing the dagger’s hilt, ready to strike if she’s the one in my sights.

To kill Gia like this means playing her game, no bullets, just a betrayal slipped silent between her ribs like a kiss. “Just like you, Enzo,” I murmur, feeling his lessons curl around me, the art of deceit he painted into my blood as I step toward that red silhouette.

A man in a black velvet mask brushes past, his hand grazing my arm, and I stiffen, snapping, “Watch it,” as I check his eyes. Not Kieran, not Gia—just a stranger lost in the gala’s haze, and I ease back, letting the crowd take him as I prowl deeper into the dance.

The chandeliers glitter above, casting fractured light over masked faces, a web of elegance hiding killers beneath the silk and gold. I move through it, my gown whispering against the marble, every gesture echoing my mother’s grace and my father’s cunning.

I catch my reflection in a gilded frame, white lace stark against my dark hair, eyes glinting cold behind it.

“No one stops me tonight,” I say soft, a queen they’ll bow to before they bleed.

The room thrums with life, music and laughter cloaking the lethal edge beneath it all. I tilt my head, scanning the corners where shadows gather, knowing Gia lurks there, a viper poised to strike Kieran’s plan dead before it can breathe free.

I weave through the gala’s glittering chaos, champagne flute cool in my hand, when Gia materializes beside me like a specter draped in red silk. Her mask covers only half her face, leaving her smirk bare—a slash of cruelty that lights her eyes as she steps into my path.

“Well, well, Sylvara D’Agostino,” she purrs, voice smooth as venom, circling me slow like a predator sizing up its kill.

I match her pace, my gown brushing the marble, saying, “Gia Lucchesi, bold to show your face, even half of it.”

Her laugh cuts low, a blade wrapped in velvet as she leans closer, her perfume sharp with jasmine and spite.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” she says, eyes glinting behind her mask, “waltzing in here with Kieran’s secrets stitched into that pretty dress.”

My grip tightens on the flute, but I keep my smile cold, replying, “And you think you’re untouchable, knowing my bloodline, Enzo’s shadow creeping back?”

She tilts her head, smirk widening, hinting at truths she shouldn’t have, a web she’s spun around us both.

“I know everything, darling,” she says, voice dripping with mockery as she brushes a finger along her glass. “Kieran’s little mission to get Dante, your father’s encore from the grave—oh, it’s delicious, isn’t it?”

I don't hate her. I pity the woman who thinks cruelty is control.

I step closer, offering her the flute from my hand, the neurotoxin already swirling in its amber depths, subtle as a whisper.

“Drink with me,” I say, voice steady, watching her eyes narrow as she takes it, her fingers brushing mine like a dare.

She lifts the glass, sniffing it slow, her smirk curling tighter as she says, “You think I’m that easy to kill?”

I lean in, breath soft against her ear, replying, “No. I think you’re too proud to think that you’re easy to kill.”

Gia clinks her glass against the spare I’ve grabbed, her gaze locked on mine, unyielding as steel. She drinks half in one smooth pull, never blinking, the poison slipping past her lips with that infuriating smile still plastered on her face.

“You’re not your mother, Sylvara,” she says, voice low and cutting as she sets the glass down, wiping her mouth. “She died screaming, you know—pathetic to the end.”

“You’ll die silent,” I reply, my tone ice as I sip my own drink, clean and untouched, watching her smirk falter just a fraction.

The music swells around us, violins climbing high, drowning the chatter as the party blurs into a haze of silk and gold. Gia stands there, steady for now, but I know the toxin’s work—fatigue first, then paralysis creeping slow, a quiet death masked as exhaustion.

“You’ve got nerve,” she says, stepping back, her red gown rippling like blood across the marble floor.

I tilt my head, saying, “More than nerve, Gia—it’s evolution,” feeling the line I’ve crossed, Enzo’s shadow stretching long behind me.

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