Chapter 4: The eyes that remember.

Chapter 4: The eyes that remember.

Elena’s POV

The mirror had become both a friend and a stranger.

I stood before it now, dressed in obsidian silk that draped over my curves like spilled ink, the low back revealing pale skin I still hadn’t accepted as mine. My hair—long, black, and impossibly smooth—had been curled into soft waves, pinned to one side with diamond clips. The woman staring back looked elegant. Lethal. Untouchable.

Sierra De Luca.

And yet… not.

I tilted my head, studying the way the light hit my cheekbones. Even after three months, it still startled me sometimes. The reflection didn’t blink with my old warmth. Her eyes—my eyes—were colder, sharper. Her body more refined, more poised, trained in the art of danger and seduction.

But no matter how many gowns I wore, no matter how many times Viktor reminded me of who I was now, I still occasionally reached for Elena Moretti in the mirror.

Sometimes I’d catch myself lifting a hand and freeze midway, staring at the long, slender fingers that weren’t mine. Sometimes I spoke and paused, startled by the softer lilt of Sierra’s voice, polished and practiced where mine had once been impulsive and raw.

But tonight—tonight there was no space for hesitation.

Because he would be there.

Dante.

The man who’d once called me his anchor. The man who'd tossed me aside like a dirty secret.

Viktor had spent the last three months shaping me, as ruthlessly and meticulously as a sculptor with marble. I’d learned the codes of his empire, the politics of silence, the anatomy of violence. He’d taught me how to wield charm like a dagger and fear like currency.

Every meal we shared was strategy. Every conversation, a blueprint. Every lesson, a weapon.

And tonight? Tonight, the world would know that Sierra De Luca had returned from her coma. That the princess of the De Luca empire was back—more beautiful, more dangerous, more untouchable than ever.

The annual Rosso Nero Gala was the perfect stage.

Fitting, really.

It was the same gala where I’d met Dante Russo for the first time, five years ago. He’d been magnetic, all quiet storms and dark charm, and I… I’d been naïve enough to believe in destiny.

Now, I would repeat history. Only this time, the roles had changed.

I was no longer Elena.

I was vengeance wrapped in velvet and diamonds.

The click of the door snapped me from my thoughts.

A servant entered, her head bowed respectfully. “Signorina, your father is ready to leave.”

My heart skipped. Then steadied.

It was time.

I turned back to the mirror. One last look. One last breath.

I looked nothing like Elena. Not anymore.

But it didn’t change the truth.

I was Elena.

The woman they killed.

The woman they thought was buried, now risen from the ashes, and about to become the nightmare.

What if Dante somehow recognised me?

The thought needled its way into my mind, unsettling. The connection we once shared had been intense—almost obsessive. Would he feel it? Would he sense something familiar beneath this new skin?

I scoffed softly.

Connection? The same connection he so easily discarded over doctored files and forged betrayal?

He hadn’t even looked back.

No. That man buried me.

And now I was coming back to return the favor.

I slipped on my gloves, squared my shoulders, and whispered to my reflection—

“Let the games begin.”

**************

The silence in the car was thick, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional exhale I didn’t realize I was holding. I stared out the tinted window as the streetlights blurred past, my gloved fingers nervously toying with the clutch in my lap. My heart hadn’t stopped racing since I left my room.

Beside me, Viktor De Luca sat calm and composed, his posture regal, hands folded across his cane like a king in waiting. He didn’t look at me immediately, but I felt his eyes flicker in my direction more than once.

Finally, he spoke.

“You’re anxious,” he said flatly. “That’s good. It means you’re still human.”

I gave a hollow laugh, one that barely touched my lips. “What if I can’t do it?” I whispered. “What if I fail?”

He turned to me then, his silver hair gleaming under the soft interior lights, those snake-like eyes cutting straight into mine.

“You won’t,” he said simply.

When I didn’t respond, he reached out and placed his hand over mine—warm, solid, grounding.

“I’ve watched you rise from death with fury in your bones,” he said. “I’ve watched you learn to hold a blade in silence and smile while sharpening it. You can do this, because you already have. Tonight, you walk into the lion’s den not as prey… but as queen.”

The car began to slow.

My breath caught.

It was time.

As the vehicle pulled up to the grand entrance of the Rosso Nero Estate, my world tilted on its axis.

The venue was nothing short of a masterpiece of wealth and intimidation. Ancient Roman columns lined the vast, arched facade. Fire torches burned beside a golden carpet instead of red—opulence mingled with menace. Security in black tuxedos stood like shadows, scanning every arrival. The air reeked of expensive cigars, secrets, and blood money.

This wasn’t just a gala.

This was a battlefield of kings.

And every king here was a killer.

Through the window, I caught glimpses of guests already inside—Italy’s most powerful mafia lords, their heirs, their mistresses. Daughters of arms dealers dripping in emeralds. Sons of drug barons clinking crystal glasses. Generals in designer suits. And tonight, every single one of them would be watching me.

The De Luca heir, risen from the dead.

The door opened, and Viktor stepped out first, greeted by murmurs and a thousand invisible eyes.

I followed.

The moment my heel hit the ground, the air changed.

A hush seemed to follow us as we walked up the steps side by side. People parted instinctively, whispers trailing in our wake. Viktor’s presence was thunder in a tailored suit—undeniable, revered, feared.

And me,

I was the storm beside him.

Dressed in a backless midnight gown that shimmered like wet ink under the lights, a diamond choker kissing my collarbone, lips blood-red, chin raised, shoulders proud—I walked like I owned the night.

Because tonight, I would.

The doors opened to reveal the ballroom.

Gold chandeliers bathed the space in warm, haunting light. Walls of marble gleamed. The orchestra played something slow, seductive, swelling like a dark lullaby. Crystal, silk, velvet. Power was stitched into the very floor.

As we entered, heads turned. Conversation dipped. Glasses paused mid-air.

But I only saw one pair of eyes.

Dante.

He stood across the room, in a circle of familiar shadows, surrounded by allies and enemies alike. His black suit fit like it was made for war, his tie undone just enough to tease the illusion of carelessness. But he wasn’t relaxed.

Not when his gaze collided with mine.

He froze.

So did I.

For a beat too long, I forgot how to breathe. My chest tightened, my legs almost faltered.

Even across the distance, the tether between us snapped taut.

He looked at me like a man seeing a ghost. His brow furrowed slightly, lips parting, jaw tense.

Recognition sparked—or was it instinct? Something flickered in his eyes.

My breath hitched.

Did he know? Did he see me?

Did my mask slip?

I swallowed hard, tearing my gaze away before I shattered.

No. Not yet. Not here.

Tonight, I wasn’t Elena. I was Sierra De Luca.

And this was only the beginning.