“Yes,” I agree. “And it also protects.” I bring my hand up, slow, until my knuckles brush the lace edge of her mask. “You can be anyone you want for one night, little dove. But I prefer the truth.”
“And if I prefer the mask?”
“Then you keep it.” My voice goes quieter. “It won’t save you from me.”
For the first time, her pulse shows at her throat. Excitement, not fear or retreat. The difference matters.
“Name,” I say.
Her lips tilt. “That defeats the point.”
“I want it anyway.”
She leans in until her breath warms the edge of my jaw. “Then earn it.”
I don’t move for a beat. I let the audacity run through me like clean water. Earn it. From any other mouth, that would be begging dressed as bravado. From hers, it’s a dare I’m happy to take.
I shift aside, guiding her along the gallery to a narrow door the guests think is a storage closet. It isn’t. The key reads the ring on my finger and the latch clicks. Inside, the noise of the ballroom drops to a hush. A private salon: dark wood, two armchairs, a small bar, a balcony veiled with heavy drapes. No cameras here. Mine are elsewhere.
She steps in without waiting for invitation. She knows proximity to power opens locked doors. She also knows the danger those doors contain. She shuts it behind her and faces me like a fencer lifting a blade.
I pour vodka into two low glasses and set one within her reach without breaking eye contact. She doesn’t touch it.
“Not drinking?” I ask.
“I like my instincts sharp,” she says.
“You’ll need them.”
“I always do.”
I take a slow swallow, then set the glass down, coming closer until I’ve taken her space and left her with only two choices: back up or stand her ground. She stands.
“Tell me who you’re hunting,” I say.
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you want me to underestimate you. And nothing makes a man underestimate a woman faster than letting him think he knows what she’s after.”
She studies me. A beat. Another. “Do you always give away your own tricks?”
“I can afford to.” I dip my head, close enough that the edge of my mask just grazes the lace of hers. “Can you?”
Her hand lifts, not to push me away, but to touch the silver at my cheek, testing the weight, the edge, the man beneath. She’s bolder than I expected, and exactly as bold as I hoped.
“Your family,” she says finally. “Your… syndicate. I want proof of what everyone already knows. I want names that mean something. Not gossip. Not myths.”
“You want front page.”
“I want truth that can’t be ignored.”
“And then?” I ask, genuinely curious. “Truth runs. Headlines fade. The next scandal eats the last one. What do you have when the paper yellows?”
Her eyes don’t leave mine. “Myself.”
I don’t smile. I bare my teeth a little. “That’s the wrong answer.”
“It’s the only one that keeps me alive.”