Chapter Three - Aleta

Dancing with the devil would be safer than this.

Every step I take with Elio brings back memories I’ve spent three years trying to bury. The waltz carries us across the floor while the rest of the gala fades to a blur of colors and faces. Nothing exists except the pressure of his hand against my waist and the scent of his cologne triggering flashbacks of Italian nights.

“You’re tense,” Elio comments as he guides me through a turn that brings our faces dangerously close.

My body responds to his voice like a violin to skilled fingers. “What did you expect? A warm reunion?”

“I expected you to hate me.” His thumb traces small circles against my lower back, making my skin tingle through the fabric. “Interesting that you don’t.”

Music swells around us as other couples maintain respectable distances between one another. We don’t. Elio holds me closer than propriety allows, and his thigh occasionally brushes mine as we move. Each contact sends jolts of electricity from my core to my fingertips.

“You’re making assumptions,” I reply, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Just because I agreed to one dance doesn’t mean anything.”

“Your pulse says otherwise.” His fingers slide subtly to the inside of my wrist, where my heartbeat betrays me. “Always such a terrible liar, tesoro.”

Heat inches across my chest and climbs into my cheeks. My body remembers his touch with embarrassing detail—how his hands felt against bare skin, and how his lips slid my spine when he unzipped my dress. Memory collides with present sensation, leaving me dizzy.

“Tell me about the photos,” I demand, desperate to focus on anything besides my body’s reaction to him. “The ones Nico showed me.”

“What exactly did these photos show?”

“You, meeting with the Gambinos at Hotel Visconti. You did tell me you were in Milan on business. There were documents outlining plans against our family, in your handwriting.”

“Those meetings happened, yes. The documents were real, but not written by me.” He spins me before bringing me back against his chest. “Your brother is an excellent forger when motivated.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because I asked you something the night before you disappeared.” Elio lowers his voice. “Do you remember what it was?”

The memory slams into me so hard I nearly trip on my stilettos. Moonlight on white sheets. Elio’s voice, uncharacteristically vulnerable: “Come away with me. Leave everything behind.”

And my answer: “Yes.”

“I remember,” I whisper. My throat is suddenly parched.

“I meant that, you know. Every word”

“Don’t say that.” I squeeze my eyes shut, and the music drowns out some of the memories threatening to drown me. “I was young and stupid.”

“Stupid is not a word I’d use to describe you, Aleta. Reckless, maybe. Beautiful, always.” He leans in closer. “But never stupid.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

 I open my eyes and glare at him, even though the expression feels wrong on my face. “Don’t pretend to care.”

“Oh, I care. But there’s a difference between caring and showing weakness.”

“And which one are you doing now?”

“Both,” he admits.

The confession surprises me, and my gaze flits up to meet his. There are shadows in his dark eyes, and something else that looks like pain.

“I need some air,” I mutter. My face is hot, and the crowded room suddenly feels oppressive.

His hand catches mine. “Aleta, wait—”

“Let go.” My voice rises, drawing glances from nearby couples.

Across the room, Nico’s head turns in our direction. Panic ignites in my chest as our eyes meet over the crowd. My brother’s face contorts, and he takes a step forward, only to be stopped by one of his associates.

I have mere seconds to get out of here before Nico does something rash.

“He’s seen us,” I whisper before I my hand from Elio’s grasp.

Elio doesn’t look away from me. “Let him come. We’re adults. We can dance with whoever we choose.”

“You don’t understand.” My breathing comes faster now. “Last time he found out about us—”

“What? What did he do to you, Aleta?”

“I have to go.” I back away, tripping over my legs trembling beneath my gown.

Elio reaches for me again. “Don’t run. Not this time.”

But I’m already moving, pushing through the crowd toward the exit. Whispers follow me as I flee, and society matrons note my hasty departure, no doubt wondering what scandal might be brewing.

Security guards watch curiously as I race past without bothering to collect my wrap or call for my car. Behind me, voices call my name—Elio’s deep baritone, then Nico’s.

Rain greets me as I burst through the main doors; it’s coming down in sheets that drench my gown in seconds. The cold water shocks my system, but it doesn’t clear the confusion Elio planted. Every truth I’ve latched onto for years feels suddenly fragile.

Mascara runs into my eyes as I stumble down the steps. My heels slip on wet marble, and I nearly go sliding before I gather my sodden dress and make for the street, desperate to flag a taxi, to escape both men and the questions I can’t face.

Headlights cut through the downpour, approaching from my left. My shoulder relax in relief as I raise my hand and step toward the curb.

But instead of slowing, the vehicle accelerates. Tires spray water as the car swerves, aiming directly for me. By the time I realize what’s happening, it’s too late—this is no taxi coming to my rescue.

The impact feels like being shattered into a thousand pieces. My body flies through rain-soaked darkness, and pain explodes everywhere at once. A scream dies in my throat as consciousness slips away.

My last thought before blackness claims me: This was no accident.