89 | You did this
The ballroom doors swing open and the world shifts, a tide of music and light pulling me into the heart of the Costa Ball, my creation.
I step inside with Luciano's arm linked with mine, his dark red suit a mirror to my crimson gown, its silk corset hugging me, its skirt flowing like a river of blood.
Every head turns to us, their gazes heavy with awe, envy, and power. But I don't flinch, don't shrink. Not with him by my side.
The ballroom is everything I'd hoped, a living page from a Shakespeare play.
Chandeliers dripping starlight, tables draped in black velvet with candles flickering like fairy spells. Guests in gowns and masks move gracefully through the room, their laughter blending with the soft music of violins.
Luciano's mother called me earlier, her voice proud as she praised the theme, the masks, the romance, calling me a true Costa, and it lit something in me, a spark of belonging I've chased my whole life.
Luciano's grip tightens and he leads me through the crowd, his mask framing eyes that burn with pride, with love so fierce it steals my breath.
"You did this," he murmurs, his voice low, just for me, as we weave past glittering gowns. "You're fucking radiant. They're all watching you, and they should."
I smile, my cheeks flushing under the mask, my heart swelling because he sees me, really sees me, not the broken girl I was but the woman I'm becoming.
We greet guests, his hand never leaving mine, a steady anchor as we nod to senators, mafia allies, and socialites dripping in diamonds.
Their names blur, but their respect doesn't. Bowed heads, murmured compliments about the ball, about us.
I can do this, I think, my pulse steady despite the eyes of the guests because Luciano's here, his presence a shield, his love a blade that cuts through my doubts.
Then we pause, facing a new guest who's an older man, his suit rumpled, his mask askew, swaying as he clutches a half-empty glass of bourbon.
His eyes, glazed and too bold, rake over me, lingering on my gown, my curves, and a chill crawls up my spine, instinct screaming danger.
"Well, well," he slurs, stepping closer, his voice thick, leering. "Mrs. Costa, look at you, too pretty for this brute, eh?" He reaches out, his hand aiming for my arm, my waist.
Before I can move, Luciano's there, his hand snapping out, seizing the man's wrist with a grip that makes the drunk wince, his face twisting in pain.
Luciano's voice is a growl, low and lethal, cutting through the music like a blade.
"Nobody touches my wife," he says, each word a vow, his eyes behind the mask blazing with a rage that's both terrifying and beautiful, a predator guarding what's his. "Get him out."
Guards materialize, their hands clamping onto the man's arms as he sputters, his glass crashing to the floor.
"Wait—wait, I didn't mean—" he stammers, but Luciano's glare silences him, and they drag him away, his protests swallowed by the crowd, the ball's magic unbroken, like he was never here.
Luciano turns to me, his hand sliding to my lower back, warm, possessive, pulling me close until I'm pressed against him, safe, cherished.
He leans down, his lips brushing my forehead, a kiss that's soft but fierce, pouring his love, his protection, into me.
"You okay?" he murmurs, searching my eyes through our masks, and I see the insanity of his devotion.
I nod, my hand resting on his chest, feeling his heart under the velvet, strong, mine.
"Yeah," I whisper, my voice steady, a smile tugging at my lips. "Thanks to you."
I glance toward the doors where the man vanished, curiosity cutting through. "Will he really be thrown out?"
Luciano's lips curve, a dark dangerous smile that sends a shiver through me.
"No," he says, his voice low, final, his hand tightening on my back. "He'll be put in a cell. No one touches you, Aurelia."
I swallow, my heart racing, because it's not just words, it's a promise, a glimpse of the man he is, the darkness he wields for me, and I love it, love him, even as it scares me.
"Okay," I say, my voice soft, leaning into him, my gown rustling against his suit.