Chapter 15: The Roman Masquerade

The island was a ghost in our rearview mirror. Within forty-eight hours, Malakai had us off the coast of Italy and submerged in the chaotic, opulent pulse of Rome. We weren't hiding in the shadows anymore; we were hiding in plain sight, draped in the kind of wealth that acted as a cloak.

​"Walk like you own the street, Leona," Malakai murmured.

​He looked lethal in a bespoke charcoal suit, his tattoos hidden beneath fine Italian wool. He looked like a billionaire, but the way his eyes scanned the rooftops for snipers told a different, more sinister story.

​I was cinched into a black silk dress that cost more than my mother’s soul. My hair was swept up, and diamonds—likely stolen—hung heavy from my ears. I felt ethereal, but beneath the lace, the weight of the silver-plated pistol strapped to my thigh was the only thing that felt real.

​"I feel like a target," I whispered as we stepped into the gilded lobby of the Hotel de la Ville.

​"You're not a target. You're the bait," Malakai replied, his hand resting possessively on the small of my back. "The Council is meeting tonight at the Borghese Gala. They think we’re halfway to South America. They don't expect us to walk right into their den."

​"It's a "no joke" suicide mission, Malakai," I said, a furious spark of adrenaline lighting up my chest.

​"It's only suicide if you plan on dying. I plan on making a statement."

​We entered the gala an hour later. The room was a sea of masks, champagne, and vitriol. These were the people who funded the "bloodbaths" of Newtown from their ivory towers. As we moved through the crowd, I spotted a familiar silhouette near the fountain.

​My breath hitched. It was a woman in an oversized fur wrap, her jewelry clinking like chains.

​"Betty," I hissed, my fingers twitching toward my thigh.

​Malakai’s grip tightened on my waist, his knuckles white. "I see her. And look who she's talking to."

​Standing beside my mother was a man with white hair and a face like a predatory bird—the Chairman of the High Council. The man who had signed the order to have us "neutralized" on the island.

​"She's selling us out again," I realized, a cold, unyielding calm settling over me. "She's telling him we’re gone so she can collect the bounty on our 'deaths'."

​"Then let's show her the ghost she's been looking for," Malakai growled.

​He didn't draw a gun. Instead, he grabbed two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter and handed one to me. His eyes were dark, burning with a malevolent glee.

​"Tonight, we don't just kill them, Leona. We ruin them. We’re going to show this 'bitch ass' Council that the monster they created is finally off the leash."

​I took the glass, my gaze locking onto my mother’s across the room. She looked happy. She looked rich. She looked like she thought she had won.

​"Let's go, Malakai," I said, my voice as sharp as a razor. "I’m ready to start the show."