7

Chapter 7

MAYA.

I removed my glass, placed the mask over my face and secured the ribbons behind my head, then walked toward the bathroom with measured steps. The guards could see the bedroom through the camera feed, but the private bathroom had no camera inside because even mafia families occasionally pretended to respect dignity.

I shut the door, locked it, and immediately turned toward the ceiling.

One of the marble panels above the bathtub shifted slightly before Mara’s frightened face appeared through the opening. She carefully lowered herself from the hidden maintenance compartment, gripping the edges until her feet reached the top of the bathtub, and then she jumped down quietly.

For one breath, neither of us spoke.

Mara had copied the red streaks in my hair using temporary dye, and her face had been shaped with makeup to resemble mine from a distance. We were not identical, but our height and figures were close enough, while the gown, lace mask, and heavy lighting downstairs would hide the rest.

Still, if anyone looked too carefully, we were both dead.

“You look terrifyingly like me,” I whispered.

She gave me a weak smile. “I’ve never been insulted so politely.”

Despite everything, a quiet laugh almost escaped me, and the sound hurt because it reminded me of Rosa. Mara’s expression changed too, grief passing between us without words, but neither of us could afford to break down.

Not now.

She reached beneath her dress and handed me a folded performer’s uniform, a short black skirt, fitted corset, sheer stockings, and a plain mask. I stripped quickly, helped her into my gown, then adjusted the lace around her shoulders and arranged her copied hair exactly as mine had been styled.

“You don’t have to do this,” I whispered as I tightened the back of the gown. “I can find another way.”

“No, you can’t.”

“If Lorenzo discovers the switch...”

“He killed our mother,” Mara said, and although her voice remained quiet, something hard had entered it. “Do you think Clara and I are still waiting for him to show mercy? We’re getting you out because Mom asked us to, and because once you’re free, you can come back for us.”

“I will.”

“I know.”

She turned and placed both hands around mine. “You’d better, because I hate this dress and I refuse to die wearing something this tight.”

A broken laugh slipped from my mouth, followed almost immediately by tears. I pulled her into my arms, holding her tightly while she buried her face against my shoulder, and for several seconds we simply stood there, two grieving girls trying to pretend we were brave enough for what came next.

Then Clara’s voice returned through the receiver. “You need to move. One of the guards just asked why she’s taking so long.”

We separated reluctantly.

Mara adjusted the mask on her face, took one last breath, and walked out of the bathroom wearing my identity. I waited until I heard the bedroom door open and the guards escort her away, then pulled on the black wig Mara had brought. It covered my natural hair and red streaks completely, falling in loose curls to my waist.

I dressed in the performer’s uniform, tied the smaller mask over my face, and climbed onto the bathtub. Mara had left a small folding step wedged beneath the marble ledge, and after several awkward attempts that nearly ended with me cracking my skull before Lorenzo could marry me off, I managed to pull myself into the narrow maintenance compartment.

The space was dark, dusty, and barely wide enough for my shoulders. I crawled forward on my hands and knees while Clara guided me through the receiver, turning left at the first junction and right after the ventilation shaft. Beneath me, I could hear music beginning to shake the estate, followed by laughter, glasses clinking, and the distant roar of hundreds of guests arriving.

“Stop,” Clara whispered suddenly. “There’s a camera at the next exit. Wait for it to turn.”

I froze, knees aching against the metal.

“Now.”

I pushed open the panel and lowered myself into a shadowed storage corridor just as the camera rotated toward the opposite wall. My shoes touched the floor without sound, and I immediately moved behind a row of stacked crates.

“Keep going,” Clara instructed. “The performers’ preparation room is at the end of the western passage. Don’t rush. Anyone running will draw attention.”

Easy for her to say when my heart was trying to escape through my mouth.

I forced myself to walk normally, passing servants carrying trays and guards checking doors. No one looked at me twice. Performers were everywhere tonight, dancers, singers, musicians, escorts, and women hired to entertain men who had spent their lives believing money erased the meaning of the word no.

The performers’ room was already crowded when I entered. Clara had infiltrated the staffing system hours earlier and added my false name to the schedule, so when a woman holding a clipboard asked who I was, I gave her the name without hesitation.

She checked the list, nodded, and pointed toward the waitresses.

Just like that, I was inside.

My second escape route depended on leaving with the performers after the party. Their buses received lighter security checks because every major family had supplied their own entertainment staff, and searching hundreds of dancers, singers, musicians, and servers thoroughly would delay departures until morning.

It was painfully risky but if Ace Morello had not attended, I would have no choice but to use it.

I joined the other women near the mirrors, pretending to adjust my lipstick while secretly studying every door and guard. Most of the performers were dancers or strippers dressed in outfits that barely qualified as clothing, and several of them whispered warnings about the guests while applying glitter to their bodies.

“Don’t refuse anyone important,” one woman murmured. “Smile, agree, and survive the night.”

Another laughed without humor. “Last year, a girl slapped a capo for grabbing her. They found one of her shoes near the river.”

My stomach tightened.

There were rules against attacking rival families during neutral celebrations, but apparently those rules did not extend to women hired to serve them. If a guest ordered one of us to sit on his lap, dance for him, follow him upstairs, or do something worse, refusal could end inside a shallow grave or a barrel of acid.

I adjusted the mask over my face and reminded myself that fear could wait.

When the ballroom doors opened, we entered carrying trays of champagne.

The estate had transformed completely. Crystal chandeliers burned above hundreds of masked guests, and long tables overflowed with food, gold decorations, expensive bottles, and flower arrangements large enough to hide weapons inside.

Men who had ordered each other’s deaths shook hands like old friends.

Women smiled while trading insults hidden inside compliments.

Guards lined every entrance, and somewhere near the centre of the hall, Mara sat beside the man Lorenzo had chosen as my future husband. I could not see his face properly from where I stood, and I honestly did not care whether it was Michael, Carl, or some third monster Lorenzo had pulled from a basement.

I was not staying long enough to marry him.

I moved between tables with the other waitresses, keeping my head down while men grabbed glasses from my tray. One pinched my waist as I passed, and another caught my wrist and asked what I cost for the night.

“Already reserved,” I lied softly.

He released me with a disappointed grunt.

My pulse remained dangerously high as I continued moving, listening for Clara while trying not to look toward Mara too often. Every second felt stretched thin, and whenever a guard glanced in my direction, my body prepared to run even though running would expose everything.

Then Clara’s voice whispered into my ear.

“He’s here.”

I nearly dropped the tray.

“Who?”

“Ace Morello. He arrived thirty minutes ago.”

Relief hit so suddenly that my knees weakened. I tightened my grip on the tray and forced myself to keep walking.

“Where?”

“Private eastern lounge. Second floor.”

My throat went dry. “Is he alone?”

“Mostly. Four guards outside, maybe more inside. I can’t access the lounge cameras because his security team disconnected them from the Rossi network.”

Ace had never trusted anyone else’s security, even when I was a child. He used to say that allowing another man to guard your secrets was the same as handing him the knife and politely turning your back.

I abandoned my tray in the servants’ area and slipped away from the ballroom, following Clara’s directions through a quieter corridor. The music faded behind me, replaced by the sound of my own breathing and the blood pounding in my ears.

“Left at the statue,” Clara instructed. “Then take the private stairs. There’s one guard at the bottom.”

I walked past him carrying an empty champagne bottle and muttered something about a special request from the eastern lounge. He barely looked at me before waving me through.

The stairs felt endless.

With each step, memories returned without permission. Ace teaching me chess in the Morello library. Ace standing behind me at my first school science exhibition when my mother claimed she was too busy to attend. Ace buying me ridiculous green glasses because I had cried when another child called my old pair ugly.

Then the final memory came.

My mother dragging me into a car while Ace stood at the mansion entrance, blood running from a cut above his eyebrow as armed men surrounded him. I had screamed his name through the window, but my mother had slapped my hand away from the door and told me never to mention him again.

I had obeyed for years and now I was walking toward him dressed like hired entertainment and begging for rescue.

The humiliation should have stopped me, but desperation had already eaten whatever pride I had left.

Two guards stood outside the eastern lounge, both wearing dark suits and silver Morello pins. Their eyes narrowed the moment they saw me approaching.

“What do you want?” one demanded.

For one terrifying second, my mind went blank.

Clara whispered urgently through the receiver, “Say you were requested.”

I lowered my head slightly and softened my voice. “Private service for Mr. Morello.”

The guards exchanged a look.

“No service was ordered.”

My heart slammed against my ribs, but I forced myself not to fidget. “The request came through one of the ballroom hosts. I was told the guest in this room asked for someone discreet.”

One guard studied me from head to toe while the other pulled out his phone and dialled a number. He spoke quietly in Italian, listened for several seconds, and then looked at me again.

“Come forward.”

I obeyed.

They searched me thoroughly, checking my arms, waist, shoes, and mask while a handheld scanner passed over my body. I held my breath when it moved near the receiver in my ear, but the device was small enough to escape notice beneath the heavy wig.

Finally, the first guard stepped aside and opened the door.

“Go in.”

The lounge was dim, lit by low amber lamps and the orange glow of the city beyond the wide windows. Smoke curled through the air, mixed with expensive liquor and a scent I recognised before my eyes could properly adjust.

Dark cedar, old books, and something sharp and cold beneath it.

Ace.

My heart stumbled.

Years had passed, but my body remembered that scent immediately, and for one reckless moment, I almost whispered his name.

A man sat in the shadows near the windows, broad shoulders filling the dark suit he wore. A glass rested loosely in one hand while the other lay across the arm of the chair, and even without seeing his face clearly, I felt the weight of his attention settle on me.

The door closed behind me and silence filled the room.

Then Ace placed his glass on the table and stood.

He was taller than I remembered, or perhaps I had simply forgotten how overwhelming his presence could be. Time had sharpened him instead of weakening him, leaving streaks of silver near his temples and a harder line around his mouth. He moved toward me slowly, every step controlled, while I stood frozen beneath the mask, trying to remember how breathing worked.

He stopped directly in front of me and for one heartbeat, I thought he recognised me.

His head lowered toward the curve of my neck, and he inhaled once, slowly, as though judging perfume, fear, or something hidden beneath both. A low sound left his throat before he straightened again.

“You’ll do.”

I blinked behind the mask.

What?

He turned away from me and loosened the cuff of his sleeve as though the matter had already been settled. “Get started.”

My lips parted, but no sound came out. “I’m sorry?”

Ace looked over his shoulder, his expression cold and impatient. He walked back over to me, towering close enough that I could feel the heat of his body.

“On your knees,” he ordered.

I stared, frozen for a heartbeat, my mind screaming that this was wrong on every level.

He added, voice dropping into something darker and almost feral, “NOW.”

I dropped instantly, knees hitting the rug hard. Before I could even steady myself, his hand shot out and grabbed the back of my head, fingers twisting into the wig.

“Now take it out and suck me off,” he growled, voice low and eyes on me like he was daring me to disobey.