The Masked Game

The invitation arrived the next morning—delivered in silence, slid under Elena’s bedroom door like a whisper from the shadows. A black envelope, unmarked, sealed with wax bearing the symbol of a red fox.

She broke the seal with a knife.

Inside, the card was simple.

Russo Estate. Midnight. Formal Attire. Masks Required.

No name. No explanation.

Just danger, dressed up as decadence.

She brought the card to Alessandro in his study. He barely glanced at it.

“It’s Russo’s annual masquerade,” he said. “A power display with alcohol, secrets, and knives behind every smile.”

“You want me to walk into Russo’s stronghold?”

“You’re already on his radar, Elena. If you don’t show up, he’ll assume you’re hiding something. If you do… we might learn what he’s hiding instead.”

“You mean I might.”

His lips twitched. “We.”

By midnight, they arrived in a vintage Maserati—sleek and silver beneath the moonlight. The Russo estate glowed on the cliffside like a jewel with a heartbeat, thrumming with music and madness.

Elena wore a midnight-blue gown that shimmered when she moved, slit high on the thigh and corseted at the waist. A silver fox mask obscured her face, turning her into myth.

Alessandro, beside her, was the devil in black. His mask was sharp leather, sculpted like a falcon’s beak, his suit stitched with charcoal thread and danger.

As they entered, masked figures turned to watch.

There were whispers.

De Luca had arrived—with a mystery on his arm.

Inside, chandeliers floated above them like frozen fire. Dancers spun to a dark waltz. Ice sculptures melted quietly near champagne towers. The elite of Naples’ criminal underworld paraded themselves behind silk and sin.

Alessandro leaned close.

“Tonight, you’re not my prisoner.”

“I’m not your anything,” she replied.

His gaze didn’t leave hers.

“Then pretend.”

They danced.

His hand on her back was warm, firm, commanding. She followed his steps, matching him in tempo and fire. To the crowd, they were sensual, magnetic. To each other, they were playing chess with their bodies.

“You’re good at this,” he murmured.

“You make it easy to fake interest.”

He tilted his head.

“And yet your pulse doesn’t lie.”

She tried to retort, but—

A scream shattered the music.

All movement stopped.

Near the stage, a woman in a white gown dropped to the floor, her mask slipping from her face as blood bloomed across her chest.

Panic threatened to break, but Russo himself stood up from the upper balcony and raised his hand.

“Stay calm!” he barked. “This is not a message.”

But it was. Everyone knew it.

Sandro grabbed Elena’s wrist.

“Exit. Now.”

They slipped through the panicking crowd and into the back corridor. The music was gone now, replaced by sirens in the distance and whispers of a ghost in the building.

In the hallway, Ricardo was waiting.

“We have a problem,” he said.

“The girl?” Alessandro asked.

Ricardo nodded. “FBI.”

Elena’s breath caught.

Ricardo looked at her, then to Sandro.

“And she wasn’t the target.”

Alessandro’s eyes narrowed. “Then who was?”

Ricardo didn’t blink. “Her.”

He looked at Elena.

“She was marked.”

Elena’s blood turned cold. This wasn’t just about mafia politics anymore. Someone wanted her silenced—and they didn’t care how much collateral it took.

For the first time, she saw something new in Alessandro’s face.

Fear.

But not for himself.

For her.

And in that moment, she understood one chilling truth:

She wasn’t just the hunter anymore.

She was the hunted.

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