Ivor
I watch the words land. There’s a flicker in her eyes, refusal, not fear. Good. Fear bores me. Refusal is something I can break down and keep.
The waltz winds toward its last sweep. I guide her through the final turn and, instead of releasing her like a gentleman would, I keep my hand on her lower back. She allows it. Not submission, she’s taking a measurement. How far will I push? How far will she let me?
Far enough.
“Walk with me,” I say.
To anyone watching, it’s a courteous request. To her, it’s a line drawn. She meets my gaze as if weighing costs and outcomes, then nods once. We slip off the dance floor into the shadowed edge of the ballroom where the lights soften and the chatter fades to a manageable hum.
I lift two fingers in the smallest gesture toward the gallery.
Across the room, Anton, my quietest man, turns his head.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t spook the herd.
He knows the signal: trace her entry, pull the guest list slice for this hour, cross with seating, bar tabs, cloakroom tags.
If she came through that door, I’ll know whose name she borrowed to do it.
“Do you always command strangers?” she asks as we pass through the gilded pillars.
“Only the interesting ones.”
“Flatterer.”
“Accurate reporter,” I counter.
Her mouth tightens at that, a sharp little flash that tells me more than she realizes.
Reporter. I could’ve said observer, onlooker, wallflower.
I didn’t. I want her to know I’m not fooled by the lace and the perfume and the polite nods.
And I want to see what she does with the knowledge that I’m not fooled.
We take the marble steps up to the side gallery.
From here the ballroom looks like a toy city, tiny figures in jeweled masks, tiny dramas.
I stop at the balustrade and lean in, caging her between the rail and my chest. Not touching more than necessary.
Still enough to make it clear that if she bolts, she’ll have to bolt through me.
Close like this, the tells collect themselves: hair pinned by someone with hands, not a stylist with assistants; one earring a fraction lower than the other; a faint crescent of ink on her right forefinger where a pen sits when you’re scribbling fast; heels chosen for stability, not for show.
Everything functional beneath a skin of glitter.
“You don’t belong here,” I say, not as insult. As fact.
Her chin lifts. “Belonging is a story people tell to keep other people out.”
“Is that what you’re here to write? Who belongs?”
“I’m here to observe.”
“And sell what you observe?”
She doesn’t blink. Brave little dove. “Truth isn’t a commodity. It’s a service.”
I laugh, soft. “The Bratva doesn’t run on services. We run on leverage.”
“And fear,” she says.
“And loyalty,” I add, because she should understand the full equation if she intends to play this game on my floor.
Below us, my cousins circulate. Hyenas in suits.
One of them, Ash, glances up, an instinctive search for my weakness.
I give him nothing but a stainless-steel stare through the mask until he looks away first. My father’s ultimatum scrapes through my chest again.
Breed an heir or I’ll pass everything to your cousins.
The familiar heat rises in my throat. He wants a docile bride, a womb he can count on.
I want a challenge I can battle every night.
I turn back to her. “You said you like stories. Then listen to this one: a man at a masquerade needs to choose a wife. He’s told to pick soft. But he picks sharp instead.”
Her breath hitches. Not fear. Calculation, again. She’s measuring the angle of the blade.
“Sharp cuts,” she says.
“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.”
“You put your faith in the wrong god, storyteller.” I raise my hand and, this time, trail my fingertips down the line of her throat to the hollow where her pulse thrums, then lower to the small, practical pendant hidden at her sternum.
Not diamonds. A thin disc of steel, etched with a tiny serial.
Medical, not decorative. Prepared for bad nights.
“You don’t survive this world alone. No one does. ”
“I’m not in your world,” she says.
“You are now.”
Before she can fire back, there’s a discreet double-tap at the door.
I don’t look; I just extend my hand and the slip is placed against my palm through the narrow service hatch.
Silent, efficient. Anton’s printout, names attached to tickets, cloak tags, a scribble on the reverse: no photo trail / phone off / arrived alone.
Clean. Too clean for anyone born to this ballroom.
“You weren’t invited here tonight. So how did you get in, little dove?”
Her jaw clenches, the first flicker of annoyance I’ve seen from her tonight.
“A friend of a friend,” she says, tilting her chin defiantly.
“Your friend of a friend chooses good friends,” I say, folding the paper without letting her see it.
Her brows flick in the smallest acknowledgment. She won’t give me the name; she’s not careless. Fine. We don’t need names yet.
Downstairs, the orchestra strikes a new set and the crowd erupts in polite applause. Tomorrow inches closer. My father’s leash tugs. My cousins sharpen their knives when they should be finding their own wives.
I open the door and offer her my arm again. She stares at it like it’s a trap, which it is, and slides her hand into the crook of my elbow anyway.
We step back into the light.
Let them see. Let them wonder who she is. Let them think I’ve made my dutiful selection like a good son.
Only she and I will know the truth: I didn’t pick safe. I didn’t pick soft.
I picked sharp. And I plan to bleed for it.