THE MASQUERADE

“Try it on. He’ll want you perfectly.”

The words dripped from Lucia Barone’s lips like venom wrapped in silk. She stood in Bianca’s doorway with a garment bag draped over one arm, her perfectly lacquered nails tapping the fabric as if daring Bianca to refuse.

Bianca’s eyes flicked to the bag. A faint shimmer of silver spilled through the zipper. She didn’t move. “Another costume?” she asked, her voice laced with exhaustion.

Lucia’s painted smile widened. “Not a costume. A crown in silk. You’ll wear it tonight. There’s a ball, a masquerade. Matteo insists you be seen.”

Bianca let out a humorless laugh. “Paraded, you mean.”

Lucia’s eyes glinted, dark amusement dancing there. “Paraded, Displayed, Chosen. Use whichever word you like. But make no mistake, you’re his. Tonight, the world sees it too.”

She dropped the bag onto the bed with a careless toss. Bianca unzipped it and drew out the gown a waterfall of midnight satin, cut low, the bodice jeweled with black stones that shimmered like shards of ice. A matching mask rested on top, its delicate lace edges spiked with metallic thorns.

The dress was beautiful, breathtaking even, but the weight of it suffocated her. It wasn’t a garment; it was a cage sewn in silk.

Lucia tilted her head, watching Bianca touch the fabric as though it were barbed wire. “It will fit like sin,” she murmured. “Matteo knows how to dress his possessions.”

Bianca lifted her chin. “I’m not his possession.”

Lucia only smirked, stepping closer until her perfume jasmine laced with smoke wrapped around Bianca like poison. “Keep telling yourself that, but tonight, you’ll see the truth.”

When the door shut behind her, Bianca pressed the mask against her chest. Her heart hammered. Every seam of this dress whispered surrender.

But she vowed, as she slipped into it hours later, that surrender would never belong to her.

The masquerade ball unfolded like a nightmare dipped in gold.

Bianca descended the marble staircase of Matteo’s villa, the gown hugging her like a second skin, the mask hiding half her face but not her trembling. Candlelight gleamed off crystal chandeliers, spilling across a sea of velvet, satin, and jewels. Men in tailored suits. Women in gowns heavy enough to crush bone. Every face hidden behind painted masks, every smile sharpened like teeth.

She felt them all watching her.

At the foot of the stairs, Matteo waited. He was dressed in a suit as black as midnight, his mask carved of silver with edges sharp as blades. His hand extended toward her not as an invitation but as command.

“Bianca,” he said, his voice smooth, carrying even in the roar of violins. “You’re late.”

She placed her hand in his icy fingers, brushing warm skin, and allowed him to guide her into the lion’s den.

The ballroom swelled with music and murmurs. Everywhere Bianca looked, men with dark eyes and women with colder smiles greeted Matteo with subtle bows and nods. Mafia heads. Their wives. Their heirs.

And here the pretty bird in the cage.

The first to approach was a woman in emerald silk, her mask feathered, her eyes dripping with disdain. “So this is the fiancée,” she purred. “We all wondered when Matteo would finally chain someone down.”

Another voice cut in, dripping with poison. A man in a red mask leaned closer, his glass of wine tipping. “You should ask about the last ones,” he whispered to Bianca, his smile sly. “They never lasted long.”

Bianca stiffened. She looked at Matteo. He said nothing. He didn’t need to. His hand tightened over hers until her bones ached.

Then, like a wolf cutting through sheep, another woman slinked forward. She was young, draped in white, her mask glittering like stars. “Careful,” she said softly, close enough for only Bianca to hear. “Matteo doesn’t forgive betrayal. Just ask the ones who came before.”

Her words dripped into Bianca’s chest like acid.

But worse than the whispers was the moment a man reached for her. He was older, his mask gold, his hand heavy as it brushed her bare arm. His lips curved in a mocking smile. “Beautiful,” he said.

Before Bianca could recoil, Matteo was there.

The air turned electric, sharp enough to cut. Matteo stepped between them, his silver mask gleaming. His voice was quiet, almost lazy, but laced with steel. “Mine.”

The man paled, stammered an apology, and melted back into the crowd.

Bianca swallowed, her pulse a wild storm. The word echoed in her head like a brand. “Mine”.

Every pair of eyes turned away, pretending to ignore the storm, but the message was clear. Matteo had spoken. His possession was no longer up for debate.

The music swelled. A waltz, slow and haunting.

“Dance with me,” Matteo said, though there was no question in his voice.

He led her to the center of the floor. The crowd parted, forming a circle of watchers, wolves wrapped in velvet. Bianca tried to keep her breathing steady as Matteo placed one hand at the small of her back, the other capturing hers.

They moved as though born to it, their steps in perfect unison. But each turn, each twirl, was a leash tightening.

Bianca kept her chin high, but her voice shook. “Is this all you wanted? A puppet to spin around your floor?”

His lips curved against her ear. “Not a puppet, Bianca. A queen. But even queens bleed when they fight their kings.”

She shivered. His hand pressed tighter at her waist.

“You don’t have to love me,” Matteo whispered, his words brushing her skin like fire. “You just have to survive me.”

The violins screeched higher. Around them, masked faces blurred into shadows. Bianca’s heart slammed against her ribs.

Survive him. That was the promise. That was the threat.

When the dance ended, applause erupted, polite and poisonous. Matteo bowed slightly, his mask glinting, but Bianca’s vision swam.

Later, when she returned to her room, the dress peeled off her like a second skin.

Bianca slammed the door shut behind her, her chest heaving as though she had danced herself into ruin. The velvet gown clung to her skin like molten iron, and the weight of Matteo’s words still burned in her ears. You don’t have to love me. You just have to survive me.

She stripped the mask from her face and hurled it across the room. It hit the mirror and slid to the ground, the carved roses staring up at her like dead eyes. She pressed her palms against the vanity, staring at her own reflection. Her lips were bruised from his whispered possession. Her body trembled not from desire never from that but from rage and confusion that threatened to unravel her.

 she collapsed against the bed wondering 

What deal had her father made? And why was she the one paying for it.

She dreamed of fire, masks melting and freedom screaming her name.

But when she woke, something waited for her on the nightstand.

A folded note, written in an unfamiliar hand.

He isn’t the only one watching.

Her blood ran cold.