THE MASKED BALL

Marco's POV

I hated parties like this.

And my dad was fully aware of that.

Actually, he was fully aware of a lot of things about me that I hated being paraded around, that I hated smiling at people and faking that I was interested in them, that I hated tuxedos that cost more than most people paid in rent. He was aware of all of that. But he didn't care.

I was his pawn, his golden boy, the son destined to maintain the Powell name shining as if it belonged in history books.

Me lucky.

I readjusted my black tie for the last time, smoothed out my hair to the back of my head, and tried to give myself a neutral look before heading downstairs. The marble steps glistened under the light of the chandeliers, tempting me with how impeccable everything had to be here — and that included me.

The ballroom was alive, with rumor, forced laughter, and the clink of glasses. Gowns shone, cufflinks sparkled, and I hated every second of it. The gatherings were indistinguishable. Wealthy benefactors. Journalists pretending not to be looking for scandal. Political allies who'd trade their souls to stay in office.

And it all revolved around my father.

He posed like a king at the big piano, presiding, his smile wide and charming as ever. The moment that his flashing blue eyes spotted me, he beckoned me over with two fingers.

"Marco," he said cheerfully, as if we were the American dream family up on stage. "I want you to meet my good friend, Susan."

Susan. My father's good friend. I almost laughed out loud.

Susan extended a manicured hand, her perfume finding me before her voice did. "So handsome young man," she trilled with a ring of silvery sound.

"Nice to meet you," I replied ingratiatingly, because that's what I'd been programmed to say. I shook her hand, plastered on the sort of smile one would find in campaign photographs, and then excused myself before I threw up.

The bar was last. God have mercy on me if I was going to survive tonight sober.

I grabbed a glass of amber-colored drink and something hard, downed half of it, and allowed my eyes to drift over the room. My father's voice resonated across the room, smooth and flirtatious, charming Susan all over again, no doubt. I hated how predictable it was. He had always been a hypocrite — the ethical family man on television, the cheating bastard in private.

I knocked back the last half of my cocktail, reaching for another when—

CRASH.

Shattering glass pierced the din in the room.

Followed by a gunshot.

Screams broke out.

Security stormed in, shouting orders:

"Down! Everyone down, now!"

The room descended into bedlam — guests in jewels tumbling to their knees, heads lowered, scrambling under tables. A champagne pyramid was knocked over, glass shattering like death rain.

I crouched down, heart racing, but before my knee hit the ground, something hard was pressed against the small of my back.

A gun.

"Say nothing."

The voice was low and firm — the kind of voice you listened to, because if you didn't, you were in a body bag.

I moved my head slowly enough to see him.

A man in black. Covering half his face. Gray eyes that were as hard as steel, cold and glinting with something that was terribly close to promise.

And God have mercy on me, even with adrenaline coursing through my body, I couldn't help but notice how unfairly handsome he was.

"Move."

He shoved me across the other side of the ballroom, into a door I'd never even noticed — hidden behind one of the velvet curtains.

"What the hell—"

"Shh.".

His hand was iron on my arm as he forced me through the door, the sound of chaos behind us muffled the second it shut.

Darkness swallowed me whole.

“Who the fuck are you?” My voice came out shaky but loud, bouncing off the brick walls. “What the fuck is happening?”

The man said nothing. Not yet. He reached up, tore off his mask — and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

He was gorgeous. Cruel, lethal, gorgeous.

Dark hair, beardless shadow perfectly trimmed, and jagged scar tracing from the edge of his jaw down his neck, down into the collar of black beneath his shirt. Gray eyes gleamed beneath the warm glow of a single lantern hanging on the wall.

"What's this?" I cried, my voice breaking halfway through. "Where on earth are we?"

He smiled then a cold, humorless smile.

"Welcome party, Powell," he remarked.

My name on his lips was an insult.

"If you're here to talk about some shady business deal," I growled, trying to muster up courage I didn't have, "you've come to the wrong Powell. Whatever you're after, talk to my father. I have nothing to do with this."

The barrel of his gun dug deeper into my back.

"You're just the piece I need."

My blood froze.

"You're coming with me," I was informed, voice almost bored, as if this were a done deal. "To Italy. Tonight."

Italy.

My head spun.

I turned my head to him, heart pounding into my chest. "If my father finds out I'm missing, he'll have the FBI scour whatever flea bag you crawled out of and blow it to hell."

His grin turned cold.

"Considering how many men I've killed on your father's orders, I don't have any doubt," he said. His voice was casual, but the words cut deep. "But you? You will be a wonderful trophy to hang on my wall."

And cocked the gun.

The sound was deafening.

The cold gun barrel against my forehead.

My breath caught.

Darkness enveloped me before I could scream.