Chapter 8 – Cyril
I always arrive early.
Not for the cameras. Not for the praise. Certainly not for the fucking pleasantries.
I do it because I need to see it first. The layout. The exits. The vulnerabilities hiding under all the goddamn glitter.
The Carfano grand ballroom is drenched in gold and glass, with chandeliers suspended from the ceiling like crown jewels. The floors gleam, polished so hard you could lose yourself in your reflection. The walls are lined with velvet drapery, and the lighting is designed to make diamonds sparkle, making blood look elegant if it ever hits the floor.
I walk through the place slowly. Not like I own it, but like I’m hunting in it.
Every year, the Carfano Foundation hosts this charity gala. It was started by my father decades ago, an intentional move to clean the family name. I hated it then, and I hate it now. But I’m not the kind of man who breaks tradition.
I throw the gala to show the world that we’re polished. That we’re untouchable. A ballroom full of donors, politicians, and smiling bastards pretending not to know where the money comes from.
Every year, I extend an invitation to the Tsukasas. To Daiki.
He never shows. Not once.
And truth be told, I’m not complaining.
What the fuck would I even say to him?
Hey, Daiki, sorry your daughter bled out giving birth to my son. Have a canapé.
Yeah. Not happening.
My tux fits like armor. Jet-black, hand-stitched, flown in from a tailor in Milan who’s been crafting my suits for years, back when I had fewer scars and more patience. Tom Ford cut, with modifications. Every line clean. Every stitch flawless. The fabric is weightless, soft to the touch, but reinforced to hide what I need it to hide. A blade at my waist.
I don’t do rentals or off-the-rack. If I’m going to stand in a room full of wolves wearing smiles, I’ll do it dressed like a king ready for war.
I scan the ballroom like a battlefield, counting the steps to the nearest exit. I note the new bartender doesn’t make eye contact. The slightly ajar service door near the west corner. Every detail logged. Every angle purposeful.
Alvise steps up beside me, crisp in his own tux, holding his iPad filled with tonight’s details. His suit’s sharp, but it’s standard issue compared to mine, and he knows it. He never says anything about it; he knows better, but he’s watching me carefully tonight.
“Brief rundown?” he asks.
“Hit me.”
He turns on his iPad, rattling off without missing a beat. “Top donors all confirmed. Senator Costas is running late, as usual. Gallo from uptown brought his new wife, twenty-three, dripping in emeralds, and apparently thinks this is a fucking Met Gala. And there’s a whisper about a Fiore proxy at table nine, but nothing solid. We’ve got eyes on him.”
“Keep two floaters near that table,” I mutter. “If he moves wrong, I want to know before he finishes a drink.”
Alvise nods. “Already on it. I’ve got Gael and Pietro on rotations near the bar and service entrance. Nothing gets in or out without a second look.”
I nod, barely hearing him now.
I’ve stood in rooms with enemies breathing down my neck. I’ve negotiated while someone had a sniper on the roof trained on my head. I’ve sat at tables with blood pooling under my boots. But tonight, for the first time in a long while, I’m feeling anxiety creeping in. And that pisses me off more than anything else.
“Papa!”
I forget all my concerns the second I hear Ren’s voice.
I turn my head before I even realize I’ve moved. He’s striding into the ballroom like it’s just another Tuesday, suit jacket askew, curls rebelliously escaping whatever product tried to tame them. He looks like he walked out of a damn luxury catalog, too polished for his age, too proud of that ridiculous silver tie I know he insisted on picking himself.
And he’s beaming.
That smile knocks the breath out of me.
He walks like the lights and the chandeliers were hung just for him. And maybe they fucking were.
But then, I see her.
Enya.
And everything stills. The room. My thoughts. Even the goddamn noise from the string quartet fades.
She’s behind Ren, one hand on his shoulder to make sure he doesn’t run away. The midnight-blue gown she wears is unreal, silver embroidery that glimmers every time she moves, like stars caught in fabric. The dress hugs her in all the right places, draping over her curves before flaring at her hips and whispering across the polished floor with every step.
I remember the gown. Or rather, the vague conversation about it. Liliana had asked if she could approve a formalwear budget for Enya. I’d been buried in reports and pressure and barely glanced up. Just said, “Fine. Whatever she needs.”
Whatever she needs.
And now here she is, looking like she owns the fucking night.
She looks stunning.
Her steps are controlled, almost too careful. She’s trying not to stand out, but it’s impossible. Every head turns. Her back is straight, chin tilted just enough to read as poised. But I see the way her fingers twitch slightly against Ren’s jacket, the quick scan of the room behind her lashes. She’s nervous.
But she holds herself anyway.
Her hair is pinned in a soft knot at the base of her neck, but a few strands have slipped free, curling against her cheek. Natural. Effortless. That kind of beauty that’s hard to touch, because once you do, you ruin it.
Then there’s the locket. That fucking locket she’s always wearing. Silver. Heart-shaped. Always there, glinting just beneath the ballroom lights like it knows every secret she hasn’t said aloud.
She bends to fix Ren’s bowtie, smoothing his lapel, brushing a loose curl from his forehead with a touch so gentle it makes my chest tighten.
She doesn’t belong in this world.
But God help me, the world tilts when she walks into it.
She looks up and sees me, giving me an awkward yet genuine smile.
I just nod, forcing my eyes to look away from her.
I make my rounds like a goddamn politician. Shaking hands with men I wouldn’t piss on if they were on fire. Listening to empty compliments from women who want to be seen on my arm for five minutes, just to make their husbands sweat. Every word, every fake smile, feels like sandpaper across my nerves.
But all the while, I watch her.
Enya.
She’s not working the room like the others. Not trying to be noticed or playing socialite. She just exists. And somehow, that’s more powerful than all the sequins and champagne in the place. Present. Grounded. Fucking glowing.
Even though she’s beside Ren the whole time, people notice her.
She handles their questions and whispers with that signature grace of hers, polite but cool. Soft smiles that don’t invite more. Answers that stay within the limits of my privacy. She wears detachment like a second skin.
Then, Alvise beats me to her.
Of course, the bastard fucking does.
“You clean up well,” he tells her, his smirk lazy as he tips his glass slightly.
She laughs. Not forced or polite. It’s real. A sound I haven’t heard enough of and already want more of.
I stop pretending to give a shit about the ambassador to God-knows-where who’s droning on about charity tax loopholes. I zero in on her and Alvise.
“You’re not drinking?” he asks.
“Someone has to keep Ren from sneaking cake,” she replies.
Alvise chuckles. “You sure you’re not Italian?”
She throws back a comment, and I can’t hear the words, but I see the way her eyes flash with amusement. Sharp, playful. She’s at ease. With him.
And it guts me.
Because it’s too fucking easy for him.
He can talk to her like that. Joke. Laugh. Like she isn’t the one thing that’s crawled under my skin and started fucking nesting.
I hate it.
The way he can make her smile and the way she smiles back.
So, I cut through the edge of their conversation without slowing.
“She’s not here to chat,” I mutter under my breath as I pass them.
Alvise raises an eyebrow, barely turning his head. “No,” he says, calm and pointed, tipping his drink toward the center table where Ren is currently sticking olives onto his fingertips like claws. “She’s here for him.”
I don’t respond.
Because he’s right.
And that makes it worse.
Because there’s a part of me, some twisted, possessive part, that wants her to be here for me.
And I fucking hate that part more than I can say.
The ballroom is full now. It’s the kind of full where everyone smells like money and talks like they invented it. Waiters glide past with flutes of champagne, the string quartet shifts into an elegant tone, and my patience wears thinner with every fake laugh that bounces off the gold-leaf ceiling.
And yet, I’ve almost settled into it. Almost.
Then, I notice the shift in Enya because my eyes can’t seem to have control tonight.
Her posture stiffens. Her smile falters. Her hand, which was resting gently on Ren’s shoulder, drops just slightly. Her gaze snags on someone just past the entrance.
I follow her line of sight.
And that’s when I see a man.
Velvet tux. Polished shoes. Hair slicked back like he’s starring in a goddamn cologne ad. He walks in like he owns the place. Like we should all be grateful he showed up. And the worst part is that people notice.
A few heads turn. A few smiles widen. A server practically trips trying to clear his path.
He shouldn’t matter.
But then Enya’s eyes widen.
For just a beat, his eyes go to her too. I can see the surprise on his face that turns too quickly to calculation. His furrowed eyebrows straighten within seconds, and his lips spread into a smile. It’s gone so fast, I wonder if I imagined it. But Enya’s reaction is unmistakable. Her lips part. Her feet come to a halt. Like seeing him here knocked the air clean out of her.
It’s not surprise, like when you see an old friend. It’s not joy. It’s not even fear.
It’s that stunned, slow realization that you’ve just seen a ghost you didn’t know was haunting the room.
She knows him.
I lean toward Alvise. “Who the fuck is that?”
Alvise squints, then blinks. “Think that’s her boyfriend. Kai.”
I turn sharply. “What?”
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Guy picked her up from the estate once a week or two ago. Saw it on the security feed. Thought you knew.”
A deadly weight drops into my stomach.
I know every damn thing that happens in my house. Every visitor. Every delivery. Every security rotation down to the minute.
But I missed this?
“She didn’t know he’d be here,” I mutter, watching the way she stands still, shoulders tense. “That much is obvious.”
And that….
That bothers me more than it fucking should.
The guy, Kai, moves toward her with this casual confidence that makes me want to put my fist through a wall. He leans in, kisses her cheek, his hand brushing her back like he has any fucking right.
They talk quietly. Her smile’s slow to return. Hesitant. Controlled.
She’s not relaxed, and I can tell she’s certainly not happy. But she’s trying.
And I hate every fucking second of it.
Alvise glances at me. “You know him?”
“No,” I say flatly. “But I don’t like him.”
“He’s just a donor. Real estate firm.”
“Then why do I want to break his jaw?”
Kai makes his rounds, shaking hands and laughing like he was born to stand in rooms like this. Maybe he was. Or maybe he just learned how to fake it really fucking well.
Eventually, he makes his way to me.
He offers a hand. “Cyril Carfano. An honor.”
I would rather punch this guy, but I take his hand. Firm. Controlled.
“And you are?”
“Kai Crane,” he says smoothly. “Real estate agent. And…Enya’s boyfriend.”
He gives me a knowing smile. Then he glances over his shoulder in her direction.
“You’re making my girlfriend work tonight?” he adds with a low chuckle. Like this is all some kind of joke.
I raise an eyebrow. “I don’t remember allowing her to bring a plus-one.”
He just smiles, but it shifts. The edges of it harden. There’s bitterness underneath, buried beneath all that slick charm and perfect grooming. I see it. He knows I see it.
“I’m not here as Enya’s plus-one. I acquired an invitation,” he replies.
My eyes dart around until they find Enya, who’s watching us intently. Like she’s praying her over-confident boyfriend doesn’t get her fired.
“Hm, small world,” I say, dry as bone.
“Smaller than you think. Well…Cyril, this is a wonderful event,” he states, looking around.
Cyril.
What makes him think he can use my name so casually?
He nods at me. Then, he walks away like he’s just won a competition.
I should be focused.
But my eyes keep finding her.
And worse? Him.
After the introductions, he doesn’t leave her alone. Kai pulls her toward a quiet corner near the edge of the ballroom, just beyond the noise and lights. He’s talking low, close. She listens. Her brows pull together. Her arms cross. Not hostile, but confused.
There’s tension in her shoulders. A small shake of her head. She gestures toward Ren at one point, then glances around the room, searching, maybe for a distraction. I don’t know.
Like a fucking stalker, I inch closer, just enough to catch snatches of conversation through the swirl of gala noise.
“…should’ve told me….”
“…not the place, Kai….”
“…didn’t tell me you’d be here today.”
I clench the glass.
He leans in again. Too close. Her chin lifts in response. The man has a slick smile plastered on his lips. But the edge is there now. In his eyes and his voice, even if I can’t hear every word.
Unlike everyone else, they don’t dance. Good. She’s here to work, not dance. She doesn’t leave Ren’s side for more than a few feet. Kai circles her, positioning himself between her and anyone else who might come close.
It’s possessive and intentional.
People come and greet me, and I keep up the act of the endearing host, but my eyes keep going back to Enya.
After a while, I sense from her posture that she has softened a little, but it’s not enough to hide the unease under her skin. However, it’s enough that the smiles come more easily.
And that pisses me off even more.
I take another sip of whiskey and feel the bite all the way down.
Alvise appears beside me, sipping an amber drink.
“You sure he’s just a donor?”
“No,” I mutter. “But I don’t know what else he is either.”
And that’s what fucks with me the most.
Because I’ve never felt this way.
It’s almost midnight now. The ballroom is thinning out, champagne glasses half-empty, small clusters of guests murmuring over dessert trays and alcohol. Ren is probably tucked into his own bedroom upstairs by now. He was the star of this entire night, every donor, politician, and wannabe aristocrat fawning over his curls, his dimples, the tiny silver cufflinks that matched my own.
They adored him. All of them. He made up for my reputation and sharp edges. While I loomed in corners like a threat in a tailored tux, Ren charmed the room into forgetting who his father was.
He bought me a little grace tonight.
I’m not made for this kind of socializing. The mingling, the pleasantries, the small talk masked as business. It’s all too tight around my throat. I step outside, not because I want to, but because staying in there a minute longer would make me snap at the next senator who either mentions my dead wife or how charming my son is like Ren is a goddamn show pony.
So, I find the balcony.
And that’s where I see her.
Moonlight spills across her shoulders. Her dress shimmers like it’s breathing. The city stretches out behind her, loud and full of secrets.
She doesn’t hear me at first.
Then she turns, startled. “Sorry,” she says quickly. “I just needed some air.”
“You didn’t know he’d be here.” I get straight to the point.
She blinks, then shakes her head. “No. He said he had a business meeting. I didn’t think it was this.”
“How long have you two been involved?”
She stiffens. “I believe you can’t ask me that…. That’s personal.”
I say, softer, “You brought him into this house.”
Her eyes flash. “I took a job, Cyril…Mr. Carfano. That’s all I did.”
“Cyril’s fine.” The words feel strange coming out of my mouth.
She nods, hesitatingly.
“I thought you’d be dating a schoolteacher who volunteers in his free time. The kind who rescues animals and bakes on Sundays.”
She breathes out a short, dry laugh. “That’s how he seemed in the beginning.”
Her voice falters just slightly. Like there’s more she’s not saying. Like maybe she’s still trying to convince herself that version of him still exists.
Our eyes lock, and I don’t look away. We stay like that for a few seconds, seconds that hold more importance than anything.
She breaks contact first, straightening her dress. “I should get back.”
I nod, unsure how else to react. A part of me wants to ask her to stay, but I can’t do that. Not when I know her boyfriend is waiting for her inside.
She walks away, and I see Kai from the corner of my eye. He’s holding up a champagne glass for her. She smiles and takes it, laughing at what he says.
After a moment, Alvise returns to my side. “You want me to dig into the guy?”
I stare at the back of Kai’s head.
I shake my head. “Not yet.”
Because if I say yes now, if I tell Alvise to dig into every piece of Kai Crane’s life, I’ll fall straight into a hole I already feel myself circling. I’ll become obsessed. Not just with who he is, but why she still looks at him like that.
And I’m not ready to give him that kind of space in my head.
Or her.
But the words feel like a lie in my mouth.
Because that look in her eyes?
He doesn’t deserve that.