SOFIA POV
Tonight’s banquet.
I wore an elegant yet deadly long dark red gown — classy, with a subtle side slit perfectly hidden for easy access to the weapon strapped against my thigh. No one would ever know. That was the point.
The Royal Banquet Hall was alive with gold and laughter, crystal chandeliers raining light down on velvet gowns and sharp tuxedos. The room shimmered with old money and old blood.
I entered like a vision — the perfect noble lady, my hair pinned with rubies, a delicate smile curving my lips. I moved through the crowd with practiced grace: my posture perfect, my expression unreadable. The silk of my gown whispered with every step.
Tonight, I was Sofia Grace Wilson — Wilson heiress.
Untouchable. Immaculate.
A blade hidden beneath velvet and smiles.
I made my way to the princess, offering congratulations with all the warmth expected of me. After all, she owed me her life.
"You've been well," she greeted, her voice gentle.
"Never better, Your Highness," I replied with a flawless smile.
"Ears are everywhere and words spread faster than wind. I heard you're back in the state. When we have time, I’ll invite you for tea," she said, a sparkle in her eye.
"Thank you, Your Highness," I said with a bow, before she drifted off to attend her other guests.
Being a noble was not so different from being an assassin. Hunting land, titles, power, blessings — it was still hunting. Still fighting. Only with prettier smiles and sharper lies.
I hated it. But I was born into it. And I had a younger brother I needed to protect.
As I sipped from a crystal glass of champagne, soft whispers reached my ears.
"Have you heard he's here?" "Who?" "Marco Ruggiero!"
I stilled for a heartbeat.
Marco Ruggiero. The name rolled through the air like a spark looking for fire. He rarely attended events like these. If he was here, it was for a reason.
With my secret life always clashing against this one, my instincts stayed sharp. My claws ready. No place ever felt truly safe, and certainly not this one.
I kept my movements smooth, but I could feel it — a presence.
A gaze.
Heavy. Piercing. Like a hunter scenting prey.
I turned slightly, my eyes moving naturally over the crowd — and found him.
Leaning casually against a marble pillar, Marco Ruggiero looked like a sin sculpted in the finest black tailored suit. Power clung to him with the kind of ease that couldn’t be taught.
Tousled dark hair. A dangerous smirk curving his lips. A jawline shadowed just enough to seem careless and deadly.
When our eyes locked, the air between us tightened — electric, sharp.
He didn’t look away.
Neither did I.
Strangers here — but the way he stared at me, it was as if he knew something deeper. Something no one else dared to touch.
The way I moved. The danger stitched beneath my skin. He sensed it.
Slowly, naturally, I moved toward him — not running from the risk, but approaching it, the perfect noblewoman. Graceful. Distant. A predator cloaked in silk.
As if he knew I would come, he pushed off the pillar with easy arrogance and crossed the floor, the crowd parting for him like silk torn by a blade.
Up close, he was devastating.
He smelled faintly of smoke and cedarwood — a rich, heady scent that made something low in my stomach twist tight.
Without asking, he extended his hand toward me, his mouth curling in a slow, knowing smile.
"May I have this dance, Miss Wilson?" he asked, his voice low, rough around the edges — like a secret promise.
I tilted my head slightly, smiling with elegant mischief. "Were you expecting me, Mr. Ruggiero? I believe this is our first meeting."
"No," he said firmly, his voice cutting through the noise.
No?
"You’re 18th birthday," he added smoothly. "I remember."
Ah.
That night — extravagant, overwhelming — my Mother's doing, not mine. I barely remembered who had been there among all the vultures dressed in silk.
I inhaled calmly. "That was six years ago. What a memory you have," I said, my tone light but sharp underneath.
He offered his hand again, and I accepted.
He led me onto the dance floor with the easy command of a man born to power. As the orchestra shifted into a waltz, he pulled me close — one hand firm at my waist, the other cradling my gloved hand.
To any onlooker, we were the perfect picture of high society.
"You’ve grown into quite the lady," he murmured, voice dripping smooth as aged wine.
"I was born a lady," I replied, smiling sharply with both my lips and eyes.
His smirk widened, amused by the bite hidden in my words.
"Amore..." he drawled lazily, "You're dangerous with words too, aren’t you?"
I stiffened slightly at the word. Amore.
He had called me that once before — the night I raided his mansion.
The word rang like a bell in my mind, shaking loose memories I didn't want to confront. I masked it fast, smiling wider to cover the shiver under my skin.
Did he call every woman that? Was this just part of the game he played, sweet on the surface, deadly beneath?
"May I know how old you are, Mr. Ruggiero?" I asked sweetly, batting my lashes just enough to make it mockery.
He arched a brow, lips quirking. "Why? Planning to propose?"
"Just making sure we’re socially compatible," I replied with fake innocence, the words sliding out like polished knives.
A beat — and then he laughed.
Not mockingly.
A deep, rich laugh that pulled from his chest and crinkled the corners of his dark eyes.
It startled me — and drew me closer despite myself.
He was beautiful. Wickedly beautiful.
Sharp jawline, strong nose, full lips.
The dangerous kind of beauty that spelled ruin.
I forced my mind back into focus. "What’s so funny, Mr. Ruggiero?" I asked coolly.
"You," he said simply, eyes glinting. "Such a fiery woman, Miss Wilson."
Something electric sizzled between us — raw and undeniable.
"You move like a ghost," he murmured, his mouth brushing dangerously close to my ear as we spun among the glittering crowd. "Like someone I once knew."
His voice dropped lower.
"And you smell like rain... and blood roses."
My breath caught, just slightly.
I never wore perfume — too dangerous, too traceable.
What he smelled was me.
And he noticed.
Our eyes met again — sharp, locked in challenge.
"And you," I said coldly, pulling my hand from his as the music slowed, "speak too freely to strangers."
He only smiled — slow, wicked, inevitable.
"Then let’s not be strangers."
...
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