1-The crimson gala

[ IRIS’S POV ]

The air to the grand ballroom of the Russo estate was thick with the scent of money,  blood, and a thousand freshly cut roses.

Chandeliers dripped light softly, making the room look alive. So much that it's reflecting off the polished marble floors where the elite of the underworld mingled.

Tonight was not just a celebration, it was a truce, a public peace-making and alliance between the Russo and the Moretti families, and an end to a decade-long feud that had painted the streets of New York red.

I hate galas. I hate the forced laughter that never reaches anyone’s eyes.

The whispers behind crystal glasses, the way every glance weighed on me like a number written in blood. I would kill to be anywhere but here.

My name is Iris Russo. Nineteen. Old enough to be exchanged, young enough to be ignored.

I lingered where I always did, near the velvet curtains, half swallowed by shadow.  A place where I would be hardly noticed or never. My dark red dress was simple, almost severe. I wore it like armor.

Sofia never did.

She didn’t need to. Because she was born into this. To be daddy’s little heir and princess.

She stood beside our father as she belonged there, and the room had been built for her. Well, tonight's gala is also in her name.

 Ivory silk hugged her body. Sequins caught the light with every move she made. Blonde hair. Perfect wave. 

A smile trained.  Warm enough to calm a soul, hard enough to set a fire. To disarm men and kill for sport.

“Iris, I knew I would find you here.” She murmured as she passed me, lips curved sweetly, eyes sharp.” You look like you’re waiting for a coffin, like we’re here for a burial and not a celebration.

“Someone has mourned what this family used to be,” I replied quietly but enough to hear. ” And you’re busy selling what’s left.”

Her smile tightened, just for a moment and it was gone as quickly as it came, just like a pro that she is.

“Careful,” she said softly.” People mistake bitterness for weakness.”

“You and I both know I'm not bitter, sister.” I said using my eyes to trace the room.” This is not just my style.”

“What is your style, Iris? staying in the room reading and acting like a widow?” I looked at her, to reply.

But she drifted away before I could. Sofia answered the rule.  And she lived by them.

————————-

The room shifted. The kind of quiet that settles before violence. Announcing a powerful presence even before he set foot in the hall.

All the guests in the room turned in the direction of the door as it opened.

Salvatore Moretti.

He didn’t walk in, he claimed the space. Tall. Broad. And good looking. He controlled the room as it belonged to him with just his presence.

 His suit was charcoal. Neat. Cut to precision. Power rolls off him in waves. Beside him, His father, Vincenzo Moretti smiled like a man who had buried cities.

But Salvatore didn’t smile. His eyes swept the room with cold disinterest, men, women, alliances reduced to nothing.

Until they landed in Sofia.

Approval showed in her eyes. calculation, ownership deferred. She was happy he looked her way.

She straightened, radiant.  She put on her practiced smile. 

Then his gaze moved. Past her. Past my father. and every single soul in the room.

Straight to the shadows. Where I had chosen as my hiding place. And his cold eyes landed on me.

My breath stilled. My world narrowed to the weight of his stare, it wasn’t a curiosity. It wasn’t a surprise. It was recognition.

As if he had found something misplaced. His eyes darkened and he tilted his head to a side slightly, mouth curving, not into a smile, but a promise. One that says got ya.

Something dark stirred low in my spine.

Then he looked away. I exhaled as if I'd been underwater. I have heard a lot about him. About a boy who was given a gun instead of a book.

“Iris!” My father barked. “Stop hiding. Come here.”

I obeyed like  I always did.

Sofia’s voice cut in smoothly.  As soon as I reached their side.” This is my sister Iris. She's always shy.”

Salvatore turned, I had thought he looked scary. But up close.  He was worse. His presence pressed in, heavy, so that my heart is beating against my chest. 

There is something about his look I can't lay my hands on. It's like standing close to the devil.

“She doesn't look shy,” he said calmly. A voice I did not know a man like him could have. Cool, calm, and enough to calm a soul.

I shifted once on my feet as he bore a hole into my body.

Sofia laughed lightly,” She is shy, ” she said, not accepting what Salvatore had said.

His eyes never left mine, “ No,” he murmured,” She watches. ” I held his gaze, ”Observation is safer. He said silently, making sure I caught on to something dark that sparked in his eyes.

He stretched his hand in a gesture, I looked at it for a moment, then placed my hand on his. He took my hand.

Didn’t kiss it.  Didn’t release it.

His thumb brushed my wrist, slow, deliberate.

“Dangerous too,” he said under his breath,” you hide it well. Didn’t you?” he asked, still holding onto my hand.

I stiffened.” Let go. ” My body went into a spiral. One I  could not lay my hands on. His gaze and touch were unsettling me.

His lips curved.” Soon.” He said, smirking. I knew he felt it. How my body shook under his touch.

He released me as if nothing had happened.

But my skin burned where he touched me.

I eased back to my initial position,  where the gala looked like a blurred painting of gold jewelry and spinning silk.

 I finally felt like I could breathe, away from the prying eyes and the suffocating tension, but a heavy heat still prickled the back of my neck. Even without looking, I knew Salvatore’s eyes were locked on me.

"Hi, Angel."

I jumped, my heart hitting my ribs. Peter, one of Sofia’s friends, was leaning against the wall right next to me.

 He swirled the ice in his glass, his eyes trailing down my dress in a way that made me want to shrink.

"You look so good tonight, Iris," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "Why don't you come to my table? I can keep you company."

I pressed my back against the cold stone. "No, I’m fine, Peter. I’m good right here."

"You mean in this corner where you’re hiding?" He let out a dry, mocking laugh. "Don't be like that."

I looked away, but he stepped closer, blocking my view of the room. He was starting to get under my skin, his presence oily and loud.

"Okay, fine," he smirked, reaching out to brush his fingers against my arm. "Let’s use  your 'perfect spot' then... so I can make you feel a little less bored."

I didn't like anyone Sofia hung out with. They all felt like snakes in expensive suits. 

But as I looked past him and saw Salvatore watching us—his face a mask of cold, silent fury—I felt a spark of defiance. Maybe if I talked to Peter, I could finally stop drowning in the Moretti devil's gaze.

"Fine," I said, stepping out from the pillar.

 A waitress appeared out of the crowd, looking breathless as she tapped Peter on the shoulder.

"Mr. Peter?" she said, glancing nervously at Salvatore before looking back at him. "Mr. Moretti sent me. He said if you aren't at his table in three minutes, the deal you’ve been trying to sign is dead."

Peter’s face went pale. The smirk he’d been wearing for the last ten minutes vanished, replaced by a look of pure panic.  He looked at me, then at the man sitting like a saint. 

"I’m sorry, Iris," he stuttered, already backing away. "I’ve been chasing that deal for three years. I... I have to go. We’ll talk later!"

He didn't just walk, he practically ran toward the VIP section, tripping over his own feet in his rush to please the man who had just been "boring" me.

I turned slowly to look at Salvatore. He wasn't even watching Peter’s pathetic retreat. He was looking down at me, a cold, sharp smirk cutting across his face. 

 The "Moretti devil" 

My sister’s fiancé