Chapter 10

The grand villa perched above the bay like a crown, ablaze with lights and laughter. Strings of white bulbs hung like constellations over the garden, casting a warm glow on the marble steps and manicured hedges below. Music swelled—classical, but with a modern rhythm—and the soft rustle of silks and murmurs of moneyed conversation moved like current through the evening air.

Luca’s car pulled up to the circular drive.

The valet opened the door with a crisp nod, and out stepped Luca first—composed, pristine in his black tuxedo, a figure carved in confidence and cold elegance. His watch gleamed beneath his cuff. His presence, without effort, made heads turn.

But then Emilia stepped out.

And the world slowed.

The emerald green silk of her dress shimmered like light on deep water. The fabric clung and flowed in all the right places, commanding attention without asking for it. Her hair—soft waves, perfectly undone—framed a face that was too striking to forget, too mysterious to read.

And suddenly, everyone was looking.

Luca turned to her, offering his arm.

“You still hate me for the dress?” he asked under his breath.

Her fingers slipped through the crook of his elbow, perfectly poised. “Yes,” she said, chin lifted. “But it’s the kind of hate that gets you invited back.”

He smiled, sharp and brief. “Good. Play the part.”

“Which part?”

“The one they’ll believe most.”

She didn’t answer, but the way her hand gripped his arm just slightly tighter told him she understood.

They walked through the arched entrance together, past the photographers snapping politely, past the diplomats and heiresses and discreet criminals dressed like nobility. A sea of eyes followed them, assessing, admiring, trying to place her.

Some recognized him.

No one recognized her.

But they would.

Inside, the ballroom glittered — chandeliers suspended from vaulted ceilings, champagne flowing like water, live strings building toward something sweeping and elegant. Gold detailing on ivory walls. Italian murmurs drifting across the polished marble.

A waiter passed by with a tray. Luca took two glasses, handed one to Emilia without a word.

Her fingers brushed his when she accepted it.

The string quartet had shifted to something more dramatic—Tchaikovsky, maybe—but Emilia barely registered it. Her focus was trained on the grand entrance behind them, the glittering archway where guests were being announced in quiet Italian and ushered forward like royalty.

She had just taken a sip of champagne, still playing the poised partner at Luca’s side, when the air changed.

A hush rolled through the nearby crowd—not silence, but tension. Awareness.

Luca turned first, instinct sharp, scanning the doorway like a predator who just caught a scent.

And then they walked in.

Dimitri Volkov: tall, expressionless, his blond hair slicked back with careless perfection, eyes like winter. Cold and calculating. He was dressed in deep gray—unimpressive unless you knew how much tailoring cost in Zurich. The ring on his right hand marked him as Bratva, for those who could see it. And his presence alone was enough to split the room like a blade through silk.

But it wasn’t him that made Emilia’s stomach drop.

It was her.

The woman on his arm.

Isadora.

She looked… flawless.

Alive. Thriving.

Her hair was done almost like Emilia’s, except just slightly more polished, like she’d copied it and perfected it. Her skin glowed with the kind of subtle sheen money buys and stress never touches. And that dress—deep, sapphire blue, velvet against her skin—made her look like a royal kept secret. Isadora knew what flattered her. She always had.

And Emilia couldn’t breathe.

Five years.

Five years since  betrayal. Since Isadora vanished with their mother’s necklace and left nothing but a cold goodbye.

And now, here she was—smiling lightly, knowingly, as if she expected to be seen.

Emilia felt her chest tighten, and for the first time in days, she didn’t feel poised. She felt exposed.

“Isado……..ra?” Emilia murmured, voice brittle, barely audible.

Luca’s face didn’t change.

But something inside him snapped.

His hand, still resting at her back, fell away.

He took a step forward, gaze locked on the pair walking in like they owned the room. But it wasn’t Dimitri that had his blood burning—it was her. Isadora.

The thief.

The liar.

The woman who stole from him, used him, disappeared.

He hadn’t seen her since the night before she took off. The realization hit hard now—undeniable. Emilia wasn’t Isadora. She never was.

Because this was Isadora.

And the rage that washed over him was precise and cold. Not chaotic. Not blinding.

Focused.

This was the woman who had once kissed him like a secret, then walked away with everything.

And she had just walked in on the arm of the one man he hated more than her.

Dimitri Volkov.

His enemy.

A long silence stretched between Luca and Emilia. Then, quietly, with the weight of old betrayal bleeding into new reality, he said:

“So it’s true.”

Emilia’s voice cracked. “What is?”

“That you’re not her.”

She turned to him, stunned, hurt, but he wasn’t looking at her anymore.

He was already walking away, straight into the crowd.

Straight toward his enemies.

The crowd parted like water around them. Luca had stopped near the edge of the ballroom, one hand resting lightly on the base of a marble pillar, his jaw clenched so tight his temple ticked with restraint.

Emilia stood beside him, reeling. Her fingers clutched the stem of her champagne flute, now forgotten. She could feel the heat crawling up her neck, not from embarrassment—but from memory. From betrayal. From the way her sister’s smile hadn’t changed in five years.

The click of heels against marble cut through the music.

Then a voice.

“Well. This is awkward, isn’t it?”

Isadora didn’t notice Emilia until she turned back to face them. There she was—closer now, only feet away. A mirror in motion. A shadow made flesh. Isadora looked even more confident up close, standing just slightly forward of Dimitri, her sapphire dress shimmering beneath the chandeliers. Her smile was razor-thin, but elegant.

“Emi,” she said almost smoothly, like it was a nickname she used just yesterday. “What……what are you doing here?, you look well”

Emilia didn’t smile. “I’d say the same, but you look exactly how I remember. Just more expensive.”

Isadora’s eyes flicked briefly to Luca—evaluating, calculating. Then she let out a soft, amused hum.

“Luca,” she purred. “It’s been a while.”

His gaze was pure steel. “Not long enough.”

Dimitri remained silent, standing behind Isadora like a sentient storm cloud, watching the entire exchange with that maddening stillness he was known for. He didn’t need to speak—his presence alone broadcasted threat.

“I didn’t expect you here, Milicorn,” Isadora said, shifting her attention back to Emilia, the word “Milicorn” a sharp blade wrapped in velvet.

Luca’s voice cut through, low and bitter. “You really have the nerve to show up and stand in front of me”

“And why wouldn’t she be able to stand in front of the great Luca Rossi?” Dimitri finally spoke

“The De Rossi name isn’t as feared as it used to be, it isn’t what it used to be.”

Luca pulled out his gun and sent a bullet into the skull of the man standing at Dimitri’s right hand. He fully recognized that it was his cousin. Blood splattered all over Dimitri’s white tailored suit.

“maybe it should be” Luca said while tucking his gun back into where he had pulled it out from.

The people at the event didn’t seem surprised at what just happened. Even Isadora didn’t seem fazed or shocked, Emilia on the other hand was in great fear, she knew who Luca was, she had experienced a shooting once in her life, same head shot. It was that of her little sister Adriana. Emilia was about to throw up when Isa stepped forward to hold her, only Isa truly knew what she was going through.

Luca’s eyes weren’t on the body or Dimitri.

They were on her.

Across the chaos, he saw Isadora reaching for Emilia—his Emilia—and something inside him snapped. Not out of love. Out of ownership. Out of instinct.

He was across the room before anyone could stop him, his hand clamping around Emilia’s wrist, yanking her out of the crowd and down a narrow hallway lined with gilded mirrors.

“Luca—” she started.

“Not here.”

He didn’t stop until they reached the ladies’ powder room. He kicked the door open. Empty.

He pushed her inside, shut the door behind them, locked it.

Silence.

The air-conditioning hummed, cold and sharp. White marble, gold trim, too clean for what just happened outside.

Emilia stood frozen at first, eyes wide but unreadable.

Then, wordlessly, she moved to the mirror.

Stood beneath the air vent. The cool air lifted the strands of her hair, drying the sweat at her temples. Her hand trembled—only slightly—as she reached for the lipstick in her clutch.

Cherry red.

She reapplied it slowly. Precisely.

Like nothing had happened.

Luca stood behind her, jaw tight, watching her reflection with fire in his veins.

“I just shot a man,” he said coldly. “In front of a hundred witnesses.”

“I saw.”

“I dragged you out of there like a madman.”

“I noticed.”

“You’re not going to say anything?”

She capped the lipstick. Blotted once on the back of her hand. Then looked up and met his eyes in the mirror.

“What do you want me to say?” she asked. “That I’m scared of you?”

“Are you?”

“No.”

A beat.

“Should I be?”

He didn’t answer. His silence was louder than a confession.

They stood there — predator and enigma — in the sterile silence.

Then Emilia turned, fixed a strand of hair behind her ear, and walked past him to the door.

“Let’s go,” she said. “Before your mess stains the floor.”

By the time they returned, the body had been discreetly removed. Guests whispered behind flutes of half-drunk champagne. The music had resumed in the way music always does when powerful men clean up what power permits.

Luca and Emilia re-entered, their arrival like thunder after lightning.

They moved toward the back, toward the arched garden doors, where he had seen Isadora and Dimitri last.

They arrived just in time.

“…She looks exactly like you,” Dimitri was saying, voice low but tense. “Don’t insult me by pretending otherwise.”

Isadora held her ground, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in her stance.

“She’s nothing like me,” she said.

“She has your face.”

“She has my blood. That’s not the same.”

Dimitri leaned in. “You never mentioned a twin.”

Isadora’s jaw set. “Because she was irrelevant.”

Then, quieter. “Until now.”

Emilia’s breath hitched. She was about to step forward when Luca’s hand came down gently on her arm.

Not yet.

Not until they were ready to be seen.

So they stood in the shadows for one more breath, listening to the unraveling of a lie five years in the making.

Isadora turned her head, slow and deliberate.

“ We’re all grown-ups here, aren’t we?” she said sweetly. 

“Luca it’s always a pleasure seeing you, besides I couldn’t resist seeing who you’d bring to a night like this. And this…” Her eyes traveled over Emilia, with something like admiration twisted in fear and envy. “Well. It’s certainly a choice.”

“She wasn’t a choice,” Luca said, voice cold. 

Isadora’s smile faltered. Just slightly.

Emilia stepped forward, her voice quieter now, meant only for her sister. “Why are you with him?”

Isadora raised a brow. “Why are you with him?”

Neither of them answered.

Enjoy your night, sister,” Isadora said, turning away.

And just like that, the pair disappeared back into the crowd.

The music resumed.

But nothing felt the same.

Luca finally looked at Emilia. Really looked at her.

And for once, there were no calculations in his eyes. Just disbelief. And something dangerously close to trust fighting with doubt.

“You didn’t know they were together,” he said, low.

“No,” she breathed. “I didn’t.”

And for the first time he believed her.