Chapter 8: The Dance of Knives

Music swelled through the Rossi villa—violins sharp, cellos deep, the kind of melody that masked unease with elegance. The ballroom shimmered with crystal chandeliers, polished marble, and a sea of silks and jewels. To outsiders, it was a night of celebration. To those who knew better, it was a night of veiled threats and hidden weapons.

Adriana stood near the edge of the dance floor, a glass untouched in her hand, her heart still hammering from Damian’s brazen defiance earlier. He shouldn’t have still been here. Yet somehow, impossibly, he was—circulating among her father’s guests like he belonged, his charm disarming, his shadow inescapable.

Her father glowered from his high-backed chair, his fingers tight around his cane. Marco lingered at his side, whispering to lieutenants. Isabella drifted like a crimson flame through the crowd, her eyes never far from Adriana.

“Smile,” Isabella murmured suddenly, appearing at Adriana’s shoulder. “You look like prey waiting for slaughter.”

Adriana forced a smile, but her voice was cool. “And you look like the predator eager to deliver it.”

Isabella’s laugh was soft, but her eyes glittered. “Careful, cugina. Predators and prey bleed the same when they’re careless.”

Before Adriana could answer, the music shifted—lighter, swifter, a call to the floor. Partners moved into place, silk and lace swirling. And then—Damian was there.

He crossed the room without hesitation, as though no one else existed. Gasps rose, whispers darted like knives. He stopped before Adriana, bowing just enough to mock tradition.

“Signorina Rossi,” he said, his voice low, dangerous, meant for her alone. “Dance with me.”

Her chest tightened. Every eye in the hall burned into her. To accept was madness. To refuse was weakness.

Adriana lifted her chin. “Very well.”

The crowd parted, the music surged, and suddenly she was in his arms.

Damian’s hand slid to her waist, firm, claiming. His other clasped hers, strong and unyielding. They moved into the rhythm, their steps sharp, deliberate—more duel than dance.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she hissed beneath her breath, her body betraying her by following his lead.

“I told you,” he murmured, his lips close enough to brush her ear. “Danger is the only game worth playing.”

Their steps twisted, turned—his hand tightening when she faltered, his body brushing against hers with calculated control. Every movement was a threat and a promise, the line between violence and desire blurring with each beat of the music.

“You’re reckless,” she whispered.

“You’re drawn to it.” His eyes burned into hers, unflinching. “Admit it.”

Her heart raced. Around them, the hall watched—her father’s fury simmering, Isabella’s gaze narrowing to slits, Marco whispering threats. Yet all Adriana could feel was the press of Damian’s palm, the heat of his breath, the wild rhythm pulling her under.

The dance quickened, the music spiraling higher, sharper. It was no longer a waltz—it was combat. His steps pressed hers, her spins answered his challenges. And somewhere in that collision of wills, something shifted. The world shrank until there was only him.

Her lips parted, a confession trembling at the edge of her tongue. But before it could escape, the music crashed to its finale.

The crowd erupted in applause, though the air was thick with outrage. Damian bowed slightly, his smirk razor-sharp, before releasing her hand last of all—his touch lingering a heartbeat too long.

Adriana’s knees threatened to buckle. She forced herself to stand tall, her chest heaving, her pulse wild.

Isabella appeared instantly, her smile a dagger cloaked in velvet. “What a performance,” she purred, looping her arm through Adriana’s. “But tell me, cugina… was that a dance? Or a declaration?”

Adriana’s throat tightened. She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because deep down, she feared it was both.

And as Damian’s gaze followed her across the ballroom, she knew one truth with terrifying clarity.

The dance of knives had only just begun.