Buried Beneath Sin

The ballroom glittered like a jewel box, its chandeliers dripping with gold light, its polished floors reflecting the swirl of gowns and tuxedos. Crystal glasses clinked in every corner, laughter rolled in waves, and the faint strains of a violin floated above it all like perfume. To anyone looking in from the outside, the event was dazzling, flawless, elegant. But Sasha DeLuca knew better.

It wasn’t just a gala—it was a parade of power. Every smile carried sharp edges, every handshake was a test, every toast was another deal struck between men who built empires from blood. Her father called it business, but Sasha understood the truth. These gatherings were battlefields dressed in velvet. And tonight, like every night, she was only here because she made the perfect pawn.

Her reflection in the tall gilt mirrors confirmed it. Her dark hair, thick and glossy, tumbled in loose waves past her shoulders, carefully styled by the woman her father hired. Her gown clung to her body in all the ways her father’s associates would notice—silk pulled over the generous curve of her hips, the short but sturdy length of her frame softened by the thick hourglass she inherited from her mother. Her skin glowed under the chandelier light, her brown eyes lined in smoky shadow to look larger, more doll-like, more controllable.

“Smile,” her father had ordered before they left the estate. “But not too much. A man sees a smile, he sees weakness.”

Sasha had smiled anyway. Not for him, but for herself. A small act of rebellion, buried beneath lipstick and perfume.

Now, as she drifted between the crowd, nodding at men whose names she barely remembered, she felt her stomach knot tighter with every minute. Her father stood across the room, the king on his throne, surrounded by men in dark suits, cigars already lit despite the “no smoking” signs. Lenny DeLuca laughed with his mouth, not his eyes, his broad frame dominating the circle of men who leaned in to hear him.

Sasha could feel his gaze on her even from here. Watchful. Possessive. Assessing whether his daughter was performing her role well enough.

She picked up a champagne flute from a passing tray, more for something to hold than to drink. Her palms itched under the pressure of expectation. She hated these events—the pretense, the fakeness, the way the room seemed to close in around her. At twenty-four years old, she was old enough to understand exactly what she was to her father: leverage. A pretty chip to trade when it suited him.

Her chest tightened at the thought.

“Miss DeLuca.”

She turned, her gown swishing softly around her legs, and found herself face to face with a man whose smile was too polished. His name was—what was it? Marco? Matteo? He was someone’s cousin, someone’s son, and he looked at her like she was already wrapped up with a bow.

“You look stunning tonight,” he said smoothly, bowing his head a little. “Your father must be very proud.”

The words were meant as a compliment, but they sank into Sasha like stones. Your father must be proud. Proud of what? That she wore the dress he approved? That she kept her mouth shut while men like this sized her up like a prize mare?

“Thank you,” Sasha murmured, the word dry on her tongue. She took a sip of champagne just to keep from spitting something sharper.

The man lingered too long, his eyes drifting too low. Heat crawled up Sasha’s neck, not the good kind, not the kind that came from attraction, but from shame—shame she didn’t ask for, shame she refused to own.

Before she had to endure another second, a call of laughter swept through the room, drawing Marco-or-Matteo’s attention away. He excused himself with a smirk, vanishing into the sea of black suits.

Sasha exhaled slowly, releasing the tension from her shoulders. She set the champagne flute back on the tray of another waiter, untouched.

Another night. Another mask. Another reminder that my life isn’t mine.

She crossed the floor, weaving through clusters of men and women. The women weren’t so different—draped in gowns, jewels heavy on their throats, smiles pasted on as they whispered gossip behind manicured nails. Sasha knew some of them were just like her—trapped, pretending. Others relished the power that came from proximity to men like her father. Either way, she didn’t belong with them.

She paused near the balcony doors, tugging at the edge of her gown. The air inside was too heavy, perfumed with greed and ambition. She longed for a breath of something real, something untainted.

But before she could slip away, her father’s voice rumbled across the room, calling her name.

“Sasha!”

Her head snapped up. Lenny DeLuca stood at the center of the ballroom now, his cigar burning low, his eyes narrowing with a silent command. He didn’t have to raise his hand. She knew better. Obedience was expected.

“Yes, Papa,” she murmured under her breath, lifting her chin as she walked back toward him.

The men in his circle looked her over as she approached, and she hated the way their gazes felt. Her father placed a heavy hand on her arm, squeezing just a little too hard. His smile was wide as he gestured toward a man in the group.

“This is Mazzo Marino,” Lenny said. “He’s been making very good business for himself. A man who knows loyalty when he sees it.”

Mazzo stepped forward, his grin practiced, his hair slicked, his suit cut too sharply to be tasteful. He kissed her hand, and Sasha fought the urge to pull away.

“An honor, Miss DeLuca,” he said, though his eyes glittered like he already owned her.

Sasha smiled, soft and polite, because that was what was expected. Inside, she wanted to scream.

The conversation carried on above her head, men talking money and power, but Sasha barely heard it. Her ears buzzed with the rush of blood, her chest tight with the knowledge that her father was already setting pieces in motion. Mazzo Marino. Another pawn moved. And she was the prize on the board.

She swallowed hard, her throat tight.

“Excuse me,” she said softly, her voice almost drowned in the laughter of men. Her father barely noticed as she slipped back into the crowd.

The balcony doors were blessedly close now, their brass handles gleaming under chandelier light. She pushed through them, stepping into the night air. Cool wind swept over her, teasing her hair, carrying the smell of city streets below.

For the first time all evening, Sasha could breathe.

She leaned on the railing, staring down at the glittering skyline. Somewhere out there, beyond her father’s world of polished cages and bloodstained thrones, was freedom. She could almost taste it, bitter and sweet.

Inside, laughter roared. Music swelled. Deals were made. And Sasha DeLuca, short and thick-statured, with curvy hips and long dark hair, stood alone under the stars, wondering if her life would ever be hers again.

*

The night air tasted like rain that hadn’t made up its mind yet. A thin wind came off the water and threaded cool fingers through Sasha’s hair, lifting a few strands and laying them back against her throat. Below the balcony, the city moved in its own rhythm—horns and brakes and laughter from the street, the shutter-click of some photographer catching people who lived for being seen. Inside, the orchestra slid from one waltz to a low, lazy rumba; outside, the real song was the city breathing.

Sasha leaned her elbows on the stone balustrade and let the chill soak through the silk at her forearms. It felt good to feel anything that wasn’t the warm, stale press of bodies and cigars and men comparing the size of their empires with numbers spoken like prayers. Out here, the air didn’t have a price tag.

She glanced up. Above, another balcony jutted from the building's next floor, all iron lace and old money. Lights glowed through sheer curtains; silhouettes drifted behind them, blurred and elongated. Someone laughed there—a quick, nervous sound that broke off as if slapped.

She told herself not to listen.

The wind carried voices down anyway, caught, stirred, set them floating to her like ash from a match.

“…I’m telling you, Leo heard it from a cousin over at St. Cecilia’s. The oldest Maretti boy—gone.”

A man’s voice, smug with fresh gossip. A lighter clicked. The sulfur sizzle reached Sasha’s nose a heartbeat later.

Another voice rose, female, careful. “Dead how?”

“They’re saying…you know.” A pause, then an exhale. “The way those boys die.”

“Business?” the woman whispered. “Or a woman?”

“Does it matter?” A dry chuckle. “A Maretti corpse is still a Maretti message.”

Sasha’s fingers tightened around the curve of stone. The Marettis. Her father’s favorite sermon topic. Their sins cataloged over Sunday sauce, their treachery set like bone in every story he told about the early days. She knew their names the way she knew the rosary: bead by bead, grudge by grudge.

Another man joined in from above, older, voice like gravel. “Heard the same from the valet. Said one of the family cars came through the service entrance—no sirens, no fuss. In and out. Priests called. Old rites.”

“God rest him,” the woman murmured reflexively. “How old was he?”

“Thirty, if a day,” gravel-voice said. “The golden son, too. Leaves the young one holding the leash now.”

“The young one—Nico?” the first man asked. “Christ. He’s a storm in a tailored suit.”

Sasha rolled her eyes at the stone. Storm. The way men loved to romanticize violence when it wore cufflinks. The orchestra inside struck a bright chord, then softened; a door opened somewhere behind her, releasing a ribbon of laughter and perfume she didn’t want.

On the balcony above, the woman lowered her voice to a confession. “My husband says when a house like that loses its first heir, the second doesn’t come to power—he gets shoved. Grief turns into rage. Rage turns into war.”

“Rage turns into money,” gravel-voice corrected, not unkindly. “War is the language of our street, bella. We just keep pretending we don’t speak it.”

“Do you think Lenny will…?” The woman didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to.

Sasha could picture her father inside the ballroom like a carved bear at the center of a hunting lodge, teeth hidden behind a smile, paws bloody beneath the fur. Would he? Would he reach? Old men measured opportunity by the softness of a widow’s cry.

“No,” the first man said, after a beat. “Not yet. He’s not stupid. He’ll let the Marettis tear themselves softer before he pushes. But mark me—this changes the board. Nico as heir? He was already dangerous with a leash. Without one…”

Gravel-voice made a noise that might have been agreement or indigestion. “The boy’s an animal for the long game. He smiles while he counts the ways to end you.”

The woman’s laugh returned, thin and unbeautiful. “Such poetry. You boys really do get excited when blood is about to be spilled.”

Sasha dropped her forehead to her forearms and let herself breathe against silk and stone. Her brown eyes slipped closed. The Marettis, the DeLucas. Men died. Sons rose. New banners were embroidered with old names and paraded down the same streets.

She should have felt something like fear. All the wives did, all the daughters who understood what “war” meant—black dresses that smelled like church incense, women hugging casseroles to their chests like shields, the way the neighborhood went quiet after sunset and then pretended not to hear the late cars. But the feeling that lifted in Sasha wasn’t fear.

It was boredom dressed as fatigue.

She had been raised on bullet-point catechism: Dust the plants on the terrace.

Smile at whoever kisses your cheek. Don’t ask questions about midnight calls. And if the Marettis are mentioned, roll your eyes and say, “Animals.” It was all the same loop, spun until dizzy. A man died. Another man swore he’d throw his shadow farther. Somewhere a priest practiced a new eulogy that would sound like the last five.

The woman above sighed. “Do they know how?”

“Just whispers,” the first man said eagerly. “Accident that wasn’t. A fall. A bullet that wandered. A heart too young to break on its own. Take your pick.”

“God rest him,” she repeated again, rote.

“God save the rest of us.” Gravel-voice flicked his ash. Some of it snowed down, missing Sasha’s shoulder by a few inches. She brushed the speck from the balustrade with her thumb, feeling oddly tender toward the tiny, glowing thing that had fallen from someone else’s story.

Nico. The name hung like a painted sign above a door she’d never walked through. She tried to place a face against it and found only a fog of rumor—the younger one, a few years older than she was, the one whose suits fit like decisions, who never wasted words, who had a knack for showing up to meetings already knowing the answers. She had heard once that he never raised his voice. Men like her father respected that more than most threats.

Heir now, if the whispers were true. The board had shifted a piece. The city would answer.

She snorted to herself, the sound small and unladylike in the night. Politics. Men playing with lives like poker chips and calling it sacrifice. She backed away from the railing, smoothing her skirt where the stone had creased it. It was ridiculous to get caught out here measuring the weight of someone else’s loss just because the wind had brought it to her.

Sasha looked up at the sliver of sky between balconies. One star muscled through the city haze, unsure if it wanted to be seen. “Good luck, golden boy,” she said into the dark, more to close the topic than to bless it. “May your leash be comfortable.”