Chapter Thirty-Eight
Sabrina
By the evening, it was as though the afternoon had never happened.
If someone had looked at me, they never would have guessed I'd spent part of my day interrogating one of Sergei Volkov's closest allies.
Much to my discomfort, I was wearing a backless black dress. I tugged self-consciously at the fabric.
“It isn't going to magically grow a back,” Carlo said from across the SUV.
“I can hope.”
“You can also stop pulling at it.”
“I'll stop when it decides to become less revealing.”
“It isn't revealing.”
I stared at him.
“There is more fabric on Dario's suit.”
Leonardo glanced up from his phone.
“She has a point.”
“Traitor,” Carlo muttered.
Across from me, Dario sat comfortably between Leonardo and Matteo, swinging his little legs as far as his seatbelt allowed.
Unlike me, he loved every second of being dressed up.
His tiny black suit had transformed him into the happiest four-year-old on the island, and every few minutes he smoothed the front of his jacket with obvious pride.
Before we'd left the house, he'd marched over to Dad, looked him up and down with the seriousness of someone judging a fashion competition and declared that he looked handsome. Dad had been ridiculously pleased with the compliment ever since.
Smiling to myself, I turned my attention to the window.
This was my first formal event as a Moretti.
I'd seen enough extravagant parties over the years to know exactly how these evenings worked, but always from a distance: hidden on rooftops overlooking brightly lit estates, watching through the scope of a rifle or standing in the shadows across the street while guests stepped from expensive cars wearing designer gowns and tailored suits.
To them, it had been another glamorous evening.
To me, they had been targets, locations and missions.
Tonight was different. For the first time, I wasn't watching from the shadows. I was walking through the front doors, not as Morana, but as Rafael and Bianca Moretti's daughter.
The convoy slowed as enormous wrought-iron gates came into view.
Beyond them, the Romero estate stretched across the hillside, illuminated fountains casting shimmering reflections over perfectly kept gardens.
At the top of the sweeping driveway stood the mansion itself, its pale stone fa?ade glowing beneath the evening lights while guests disappeared through towering double doors.
The Romeros certainly knew how to make an entrance.
The moment the SUVs came to a stop, members of the Romero staff descended the front steps, opening the doors before any of us had the chance to reach for the handles.
Warm light spilled from the mansion behind them, bathing the sweeping staircase in a soft golden glow.
At the top of the steps stood Eleanor Romero.
She carried herself with the effortless grace of someone who had spent a lifetime moving through rooms like this.
Her champagne-coloured gown flowed elegantly around her, pearls resting against her collarbone.
There was something unmistakably regal about her – not because of the clothes she wore, but because of the quiet confidence with which she wore them.
The moment she saw us, her face lit up.
“Bianca.”
“Eleanor.”
The two women embraced warmly before Eleanor greeted Dad with the familiarity of someone who had known him for decades.
“Rafael.”
“Eleanor.”
Her gaze drifted past them until it landed on me, and a gentle smile spread across her face.
“Sabrina,” she said warmly. “It's lovely to see you again.”
“You too.”
She stepped forward and pulled me into a brief hug before leaning back to take in my dress.
A knowing smile tugged at her lips.
“I have a feeling Bianca had something to do with this.”
I let out a quiet sigh.
“I didn't stand much of a chance.”
Mum laughed beside us.
“You make it sound like I forced you.”
“You gave me the look.”
“The look?”
“The one that says you've already decided how this conversation ends.”
Dad chuckled under his breath.
“I know the look.”
“So do I,” Carlo muttered from somewhere behind us.
Bianca looked entirely unapologetic.
“And yet you all still give in.”
“Because arguing is pointless,” Leonardo replied.
“It really is,” Enzo agreed.
The smile on Eleanor's face only grew.
“I think the two of you look beautiful.”
Mum slipped her arm through mine, unable to hide the pride in her expression.
“We do match rather well.”
“I'll admit,” I said reluctantly, glancing down at the dress, “it isn't as bad as I thought.”
“I'll take that as a compliment,” Mum replied.
“You should.”
A soft laugh passed through the group before Eleanor gestured towards the open doors.
“Come on. Everyone's already gathering inside.”
Together, we climbed the staircase and stepped into the Romero estate.
The ballroom was even grander than the entrance hall. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light across polished marble floors while a live orchestra played from the far end of the room. Every mafia family on the island was here, gathered beneath one roof as though they were nothing more than old friends.
Appearances were a dangerous thing.
Our family occupied one of the larger tables near the centre of the ballroom. Nonno and Nonna were already deep in conversation with Andreas Romero while my cousins had somehow managed to claim nearly an entire side of the table for themselves.
Once every family had arrived, Andreas welcomed everyone with a short speech before thanking them for attending. It was polished, confident and exactly what I expected from the head of one of the island's founding families.
The moment he stepped away from the microphone, the ballroom came alive.
Dad rose first.
“So it begins,” Carlo muttered.
Dante adjusted the cuffs of his suit before standing beside him.
“I suppose we should make an appearance.”
“You sound thrilled,” Luca said.
“I'll recover.”
Dad shot him an amused look before the two of them disappeared into the crowd.
Watching Dad move effortlessly from family to family wasn't surprising.
He'd been doing this his entire life. Watching Dante do the same was another matter entirely.
One moment he was the brother who threatened Carlo over breakfast; the next, he was shaking hands, offering polite smiles and slipping seamlessly into the role expected of the eldest Moretti son.
If I didn't know him, I'd believe every second of it.
Across the ballroom, Dante listened attentively while another heir spoke, nodding at exactly the right moments before offering a firm handshake. His smile never faltered.
It was almost impressive.
I looked over at Enzo.
“I didn't know he could do that.”
Enzo followed my gaze.
“Neither did Carlo.”
I laughed softly.
“That's hard to imagine.”
Across the ballroom, Asher spent Andreas' entire speech trying to get my attention.
I noticed him, but deliberately ignored him.
When subtlety failed, he resorted to increasingly ridiculous facial expressions, while Leonardo watched the entire performance with an expression that suggested murder was becoming a genuine possibility.
Eventually, I excused myself from the table and made my way towards one of the quieter corners of the ballroom, where Asher, Mario and Lillian were already waiting.
Valeria spotted me before I'd even reached them.
“There she is.”
“There she is,” I echoed with a laugh, pulling her into a hug.
“It's good to have you back.”
“It's good to be back.”
Stepping back, I looked her over properly.
“You survived?”
“Barely.”
She let out a dramatic sigh.
“I swear, if I'd had to see them one more time, I was going to shoot myself.”
“I'll take that as a bad few weeks.”
“The worst.”
“You've been gone, what... three weeks?”
“Twenty-three days.”
“You counted?”
“I was counting the minutes.”
Lillian smiled before wrapping her in another hug.
“I missed you.”
“I missed all of you.”
Asher immediately placed a hand over his chest.
“Even me?”
Valeria looked him up and down.
“I'll get back to you.”
Asher sighed dramatically.
“I knew I was your favourite.”
“You should really lower your expectations.”
Mario chuckled quietly.
“I've been wounded.”
Another laugh rippled through the group.
The conversation settled back into its familiar rhythm, as though Valeria had never left the island at all. She filled us in on the weeks she'd spent away while Asher repeatedly tried – and failed – to guess what she'd been dealing with.
“My money's still on witness protection.”
Valeria stared at him.
“I'm literally standing in a ballroom full of mafia families.”
“So... a really bad witness protection programme?”
Mario pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I can't believe you said that out loud.”
“I say lots of things out loud.”
“We're all painfully aware.”
He looked at me for support.
“Sabrina?”
I took a sip of my drink.
“I think Mario's right.”
Asher sighed.
“I need better friends.”
“You've got the right friends,” Mario said. “You're just the wrong person.”
Even Valeria laughed at that.
The conversation continued around us, familiar and effortless. For a little while, everything else disappeared. There were no Russians, no Sergei, no Olga and no Morana. There were just friends, and I'd almost forgotten what that felt like.
Then I felt two small hands slip into mine.
Looking down, I found Dario smiling up at me, his little suit now slightly creased from spending the evening running around the ballroom. His dark hair, which Mum had carefully styled before we'd left the house, had already begun sticking up in every direction.
He looked impossibly serious.
“Sabrina?”
“Yeah?”
He gave my hands a gentle tug.
“Dance with me.”
I glanced towards the centre of the ballroom, where couples were already moving gracefully beneath the chandeliers. The orchestra had drifted into a slow waltz, its melody filling the room with a quiet warmth.
When I looked back at him, his hopeful smile made it impossible to refuse.
I smiled.
“How could I say no to such a handsome gentleman?”
His entire face lit up.
“I knew you'd say yes.”
Still holding both of my hands, he proudly led me onto the dance floor, completely convinced he was the one in charge.
I didn't have the heart to tell him otherwise.
The moment we reached the middle of the room, he stopped and glanced around, carefully watching the adults dancing nearby. His eyes followed each couple with complete concentration.
“I know how to dance,” he announced confidently.
“Do you?”
He nodded.
“Dad showed me.”
A smile tugged at my lips.
“I have absolutely no doubt he did.”
He held one hand out exactly the way he'd seen Dad do earlier that evening.
I slipped my hand into his while resting the other lightly against his shoulder.
“Alright then,” I said. “Lead the way.”
The tip of his tongue poked out in concentration as he carefully took his first step backwards, then another. His brows furrowed as he focused on his feet, checking every few seconds that they were still moving in the right direction.
He was so determined to get it right that I couldn't help smiling.
A moment later, he stepped squarely onto my foot.
His head shot up.
“I didn't mean to.”
“I know.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Not even a little.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
He searched my face for a moment, making sure I wasn't lying, before giving a satisfied nod.
“Good.”
With that, he carried on leading our dance with all the confidence in the world, blissfully unaware that his version of dancing involved little more than walking in slightly uneven circles while trying very hard not to step on me again. It was, without question, the cutest thing I'd ever seen.
Around us, conversations gradually resumed as people drifted back towards their tables, though plenty of couples remained on the dance floor.
Every now and then, I caught sight of familiar faces smiling as they watched Dario take his responsibilities as a dance partner far more seriously than anyone else in the room.
The orchestra continued playing around us, and for the first time in days, I allowed myself to simply enjoy the moment.