Chapter Twelve - Emil
Her message lands just past noon, plain as glass: Sorry, can’t make it. Not feeling well. Rain check?
For a moment I stare at the words, letting the thin excuse settle. The last time I saw her, she left my house without warning: no call, no note, nothing but the echo of hurried footsteps and the faintest trace of her perfume in the hall.
Now this polite dismissal, cool and impersonal. She’s slipping away. I feel it as a physical thing, a crack in the foundation of a game I thought I understood.
I don’t text back right away. The part of me that handles women—the easy, detached part—knows I should let her go, let her stew, see if she comes back. I’m too restless for strategy tonight. Something isn’t right. She’s hiding again, and I want to know why.
Before I can dwell on it, my phone buzzes with a new message. Get to the Pedro party tonight. Important. –L.
Lukyan’s tone is all business, no room for refusal.
I curse under my breath. Of all our new friends, the Pedros are the ones I trust least. They’re too slick, too eager, too hungry for a piece of what doesn’t belong to them.
Refusing isn’t an option. Bratva politics always come first. The family’s alliances with both the Pedros and the Brunos are the glue holding half the city’s criminal aristocracy together, and tonight, I’m the one meant to keep the peace.
By the time I arrive, the Pedro estate is in full swing: lights blazing, laughter ringing out across manicured lawns, the air thick with cigars and false loyalty.
The place is dripping with gold, every chandelier and wine glass a monument to new money trying to buy respect. I move through the crowd with practiced indifference, accepting drinks I won’t finish, shaking hands with men I’d rather see in the ground.
I keep to the periphery, eyes sharp, scanning faces for threats and familiar dangers. This kind of party is a battlefield, even if the weapons are smiles and toasts. It’s all performance, the peace held together by a thousand veiled threats.
Then I see her.
At first, I only catch a flash of dark hair, the tilt of her head as she listens to someone beside her.
She looks different in the shifting light, all elegance and composure—a world away from the nervous art girl or the woman who slipped out of my house like a ghost. I move closer, curiosity sharpening into something like dread.
She’s not alone. Matteo Bruno stands at her side, hand at her elbow, speaking low in her ear. Every muscle in my body coils tight, old anger pressing up against the back of my throat. The Brunos. Of course.
They move through the party together, Matteo marking her as his, all possessive confidence and showy pride.
The room bends around them; people turn, watch, step aside.
It’s the kind of scene I’ve seen a hundred times, alliances cemented by proximity, power passed through handshakes and introductions.
A laugh booms to my left. Shawn Pedro, all polished charm and crocodile grin, approaches with his entourage.
“Emil!” he shouts, slapping me on the shoulder like we’ve known each other a hundred years. “Glad you could make it. Wouldn’t be a party without the Sharovs.”
I nod, hiding my irritation. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
He gestures toward Matteo and Isabella, beckoning them over. “Let me introduce you to some friends. Matteo you know, of course, but I’m not sure you’ve met his lovely cousin.”
Matteo grins, pulling Isabella closer. She’s flawless, wearing a dress simple but expensive, hair pinned up, eyes wide and bright in the candlelight. There’s a flicker of something else there. Fear? Shame? Recognition? She doesn’t look at me.
Shawn beams. “This is Isabella Bruno, Vittorio’s niece. She’s the real treasure of the family.”
The name hits me like a blade: cold, clean, final. Isabella Bruno. Not Rossi. Not gallery girl, not mystery. Bruno. Blood of my oldest enemy, my family’s rival, the daughter of the house I’ve spent half my life plotting against.
All at once, every lie she’s ever told, every hesitation, every careful answer clicks into place. She’s not just anyone. She’s the enemy.
A chill settles over me, deadening the noise and the laughter and the golden lights. I see her differently now, every moment we shared, every soft laugh, every fleeting touch. All of it poisoned by this single revelation.
Isabella’s eyes finally meet mine. For an instant, everything in the room—politics, ambition, the weight of our histories—stands on the edge of a knife.
She looks away first.
The introductions hang in the air, brittle and forced. Shawn Pedro, all showman’s confidence, gestures expansively as if his hand alone can keep the peace.
“Isabella, Emil Sharov. Two of the city’s most promising young people. You should be friends, yes?” His laugh is loud and empty.
I nod once, measured and polite, every muscle locked tight beneath my suit. The urge to reach out, to grab Isabella’s arm and drag her into some shadowed corner, nearly overwhelms me. I want the truth now.
I see the cameras, the onlookers in glittering dresses, Matteo’s watchful eyes. Everything in this world is performance. Rage has to wait its turn.
Isabella goes pale as Shawn introduces us, color draining from her face.
Her mouth opens, closes; she meets my eyes for the briefest flicker, then drops her gaze, lashes trembling.
I watch the struggle in her, the part of her that’s been trained to smile, to be charming, to give nothing away.
For a moment, it almost works. She manages a strained smile, offering her hand with careful composure.
“Mr. Sharov,” she says, her voice tight, brittle with the effort of control. “Nice to finally meet you properly.” The word properly lands hard between us, heavy with everything unsaid.
Matteo shifts beside her, posture bristling with territorial pride. He rests a casual hand at the small of her back, the gesture more warning than comfort.
“Emil and I have met,” he says, forcing the conversation along. “Always interesting to see the Russians out of their caves.”
Shawn laughs again, delighted by his own diplomacy. “Well, we all get along tonight. That’s what matters. The world’s changing, boys. Alliances, opportunities… let’s make the most of them, eh?”
I smile, but it’s only skin deep. “Of course,” I say, voice mild. “New York’s too small for old grudges.”
Isabella stiffens at that, and for a moment her eyes dart up to mine, wide and pleading, as if begging me to keep the secret, to let the night pass without consequence. I meet her look and hold it, just long enough to let her know the price of betrayal.
The awkwardness lingers, thick as smoke. Matteo glances between us, his suspicion a living thing. He leans in, speaking softly in Isabella’s ear.
“Why don’t you grab us some drinks, hmm? Take your time.” He means it as a kindness, but his eyes never leave me as she slips away.
She moves quickly, almost stumbling over the hem of her dress, head down, every movement betraying her desperation to get away. I watch her go, memorizing the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands shake as she clutches her purse.
For a second, I imagine dragging her out right here. Demanding the truth, pulling every secret out of her in front of the whole world.
That’s not how things are done, not in this world. Here, revenge and revelation are private acts. I let my expression settle into a mask of easy boredom, all anger hidden beneath the practiced, indifferent smile I’ve worn for years.
Matteo steps in close, lower than the party’s hum. “Stay away from her, Sharov,” he warns, voice sharp but quiet. “I see the way you look at her. My family doesn’t need any more Russian problems.”
I chuckle, the sound low and humorless. “Protective, aren’t you?” I let the implication hang. If Isabella was really his to protect, she wouldn’t have kept me secret. “She’s a grown woman. Maybe let her decide who she spends time with.”
His jaw clenches, but he won’t make a scene here, not tonight. “Just remember, some lines aren’t meant to be crossed. Especially by your kind.”
I let my smile fade, meeting his stare head-on. “Then maybe you should keep a closer eye on her.”
Matteo’s eyes narrow, but he turns away with a muttered curse, disappearing into the knot of guests that surround his uncle.
I watch Isabella at the far end of the hall, lingering at the bar, her back turned, spine stiff as glass. The sight of her, so out of place among all this gold and poison, twists something sharp in my chest.
For the rest of the night, I keep to the fringes. Every time I glance her way, she’s already looking elsewhere, her attention scattered and anxious. Not once does she meet my gaze again, and the distance between us—filled with the weight of her lies—grows heavier with every passing minute.
I field meaningless conversations with politicians and old gangsters, Shawn Pedro crowing at my side, but my mind stays fixed on Isabella. I replay every word, every secret look, every memory of her laugh is now tainted by the knowledge of who she really is.
Later, as the crowd thins and Matteo leads her away, he throws one last warning look over his shoulder. “Remember what I said, Sharov.”
I just smile, sharp and slow. Little Isabella hasn’t told anyone the truth about us, it seems. The thought makes me almost laugh.
Inside, I’m boiling. She played me for a fool. She thinks she can dance between empires and walk away clean.
She has no idea what it means to be hunted by a Sharov.
The party’s heat only thickens as the night drags on; champagne flows, laughter edges toward a fever pitch, and the old families press in, circling each other with honeyed words and thinly veiled threats. I move through the rooms with a glass in my hand, my smile practiced, my attention elsewhere.
Isabella lingers near the edge of the crowd, always with someone at her elbow: Matteo, a watchful aunt, or some eager cousin angling for her favor.
She laughs on cue, answers questions about family and travel, but her eyes dart to the exits, calculating.
There’s a flicker of defiance beneath her surface, a tension that sets her apart from the other women in the room.
She doesn’t want to be here. Not with me, not with them.
I keep to the sidelines, but she knows I’m watching. Our gazes collide in brief, electric flashes—hers bright with fear and something darker. Each time, she’s the first to look away.
Later, as the party lulls and the older guests settle into private corners, I see her slip free of Matteo and the Pedros. She moves along the wall, head down, careful as a thief. I follow with my eyes, making sure no one else notices the desperation in her stride.
She’s nearly at the back hallway, one hand on her purse, the other already reaching for the door, when I step into her path.