Chapter 3: The Devil's Gala
Emilia Hart – Evening – De Rossi Family Estate
The invitation arrived in an unmarked envelope slipped beneath her gallery office door. No sender. No seal. Just coordinates, a time, and two words in blood-red ink:
"Dress sharp."
She knew what it meant. She wouldn't be going as a guest.
She'd be going as bait.
---
Later – The De Rossi Estate, Upper East Side
The estate was opulence carved into stone, flanked by iron gates and men in tailored suits with dead eyes. Emilia stepped from the car with practiced grace, her dress black and backless, lips blood-wine red. She didn't look at the cameras—there were always cameras.
Inside, the air pulsed with money and menace. Gold-trimmed chandeliers swayed above whispered deals. Waiters glided through the room like ghosts, balancing champagne flutes and secrets.
Beside her, Luca walked with a calm that dared anyone to cross him. He looked the part tonight—black on black, sharp angles and cold restraint. But his hand never left her lower back.
"Smile, Miss Hart," he murmured. "Everyone's watching."
"I thought that was your job," she said under her breath.
His mouth twitched. "Tonight, you're mine. Act like it."
Before she could answer, the crowd shifted. A man emerged from the throng like a shark in bespoke—Dante De Rossi, heir to the rival empire, flanked by two silent shadows and the scent of danger.
He spotted Luca first. Then his gaze slid to Emilia.
And stayed there.
"Well, well," Dante said smoothly. "I didn't expect Luca to bring… art."
Luca's voice was silk dipped in steel. "Careful, Dante. You'll make me think you've run out of original lines."
But Dante only smiled wider. "She doesn't look like your usual taste. Too sharp. Too… federal."
The air thinned.
Emilia met Dante's stare head-on. "Funny. You don't look like the kind of man who knows how to appreciate art."
"Oh, I do," he replied. "Especially stolen pieces."
Luca stepped in. "Back off."
Dante lifted both hands. "Just admiring. But if I were you, Luca, I'd watch your collection. Sometimes what looks priceless is just well-forged."
He walked off, laughter following him like a wolf's howl.
---
Later – The Garden Balcony
Emilia needed air. The garden was colder than expected, with strings of fairy lights casting long shadows over hedges and secrets.
Footsteps followed. Of course they did.
"You handled him well," Luca said, appearing beside her. "Most people either flinch or kiss his ring."
"He's dangerous," she said softly.
"So am I."
She looked at him. "Why bring me here?"
Luca didn't answer right away. His eyes were on her mouth. "Because I don't trust you. And I wanted to see what you'd do with wolves at your throat."
"And what did I do?"
"You smiled. And you didn't break."
He reached out and tucked a loose curl behind her ear, fingers brushing her cheek. "That matters."
The silence grew thick between them. Tension not quite laced with trust.
"You remind me of someone," he added, voice suddenly distant. "But she was more afraid."
"Of you?"
"Of herself."
Emilia didn't ask what happened to her. She wasn't sure she wanted the answer.
---
Later That Night – Luca's Penthouse
She shouldn't have come back with him.
But she did.
Maybe it was the adrenaline. Or the wine. Or the way his eyes never left hers all evening. He undressed her slowly, like an unsolvable puzzle. No force. No lies. Just hands and shadows and the thrum of something dangerous beating between them.
And for a moment—just a moment—Emilia forgot why she was here.
She remembered it again when she woke up alone.
She woke in silk sheets and someone else's shadow.
Luca was gone. His side of the bed was cold, like he'd never been there at all. Except he had. Every inch of her still remembered—his mouth, his hands, the way he'd watched her as if he were memorizing a confession.
Emilia sat up slowly, blanket sliding down bare skin. Regret clawed at her chest, but it wasn't clean regret. It was laced with something darker—want, confusion, the dread of a line crossed too quietly to notice.
She was here to break him, not to need him.
Not to want the devil she'd been sent to destroy.
Her phone buzzed from the side table. A message from Cole.
"Meeting moved up. 10 AM. Get out of there."
She was already twenty minutes behind.
—
Later — FBI Safehouse, Brooklyn
Cole was pacing when she walked in, hoodie unzipped, coffee untouched. Keene stood at the far end of the room, arms crossed, unreadable as always.
"You disappeared," Cole said sharply. "You were supposed to report back last night."
"I couldn't," Emilia said, pulling her coat tighter. "I wasn't alone."
Cole's eyes narrowed. "You spent the night with him?"
"I was keeping cover."
Keene cut in. "You compromised your position."
"I advanced it," Emilia snapped. "You wanted me close to Moretti? I'm in his bed, his penthouse, his gallery. You think that just happened?"
Cole rubbed a hand down his face, but Keene remained silent for a beat.
Then, flatly: "There's chatter. Something's coming through Prague—high-value shipment. De Rossi might be moving it through Moretti's network."
"Through the gallery?" Emilia asked.
"We think so," Keene said. "Moretti's clean on paper, but De Rossi's not subtle. If they're partnering, even temporarily, we'll find a crack."
Emilia's stomach turned. "Dante hinted at something. At the gala."
Cole scoffed. "That prick doesn't hint. He plays chicken with a lit match."
Keene pushed a folder toward her. Inside: manifests, coded messages, shipment estimates, all under De Rossi's name. All pointing toward a laundering op masked as an art transfer.
"You'll intercept the handoff," Keene said. "Gallery floor. Two days. Eyes open."
"What if Moretti's not involved?" she asked.
"Then he's in the way."
—
Later — Moretti Gallery, Evening
Emilia sat at her glass desk pretending to catalogue a set of ceramic installations while her mind raced. Luca hadn't spoken about the gala. He hadn't texted. Hadn't called.
He was giving her space.
Or he was watching to see what she did next.
A new delivery came in just before closing—two crates, marked as Eastern European modernist pieces. But the codes matched one of the Prague flags from the FBI file. She watched the handlers sign them in, her pulse a steady drumbeat.
Her phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number: "I hope you slept well, bella ladra."
Thief.
She looked up, heart stuttering—and found Luca standing in her office doorway, a smirk barely touching his lips.
"You didn't call," she said, rising slowly.
"I didn't think I had to," he said, stepping in. "After last night, I figured we were past the games."
"And now?"
"Now," he said, eyes on her like a loaded gun, "I want to know who the hell you really are."
—
Flashback — Luca Moretti — The Night of the Gala
He watched her sleep longer than he should have.
Something in her face—unguarded in the moonlight—twisted at parts of him he thought were long dead. It wasn't just attraction. It wasn't even trust. It was fear. The kind of fear that came when a man with too many enemies realized the one person in his bed might be the one holding the match.
He'd seen the look in Dante's eyes.
He'd heard the edge in her voice.
And he'd ordered a trace on her background that night.
Nothing came back.
No real past. No real name.
Luca poured himself a drink he didn't finish and told himself she wasn't the enemy.
Not yet.
—
Back to Present — Gallery Office
"You're not here for the art," Luca said quietly.
Emilia's breath caught. "And you're not just a gallery owner."
A beat passed. Neither denied it.
"Tell me one thing," he said, stepping close, voice low. "Are you using me?"
Her chest ached. "Does it matter?"
He exhaled hard. "It does if I'm using you too."
He kissed her before she could answer—hard, brutal, honest.
And it felt like war.
Trust was a currency. And he'd learned the hard way that it had the shortest shelf life of them all.
He lit a cigarette he didn't plan to finish and stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the city blink beneath him like a dying star. Emilia had left two hours ago. Said she needed to "clear her head." He hadn't stopped her.
But he'd already made the call.
"You were right," Luca had said. "She's not who she says she is. Find out who sent her."
Now he waited.
Not because he wanted her to be guilty. But because it would be easier than the alternative.
Because if Emilia Hart was telling the truth—if the way she looked at him wasn't an act—then he was in more danger than he'd ever been.
Not from bullets.
From her.
He took a slow drag, tasted the bitter bite of ash and regret, and exhaled into the silence.
"God help us both," he muttered.
Emilia Hart — Early Morning — Brooklyn Safehouse
She didn't look in the mirror.
Not as she peeled off the dress that still carried his scent. Not as she wiped the smudged red from her mouth. Not even as she stared at the gun resting in the drawer beside her badge.
Because if she looked in the mirror, she wasn't sure who would be staring back.
Not the agent. Not the asset.
Just the liar.
The safehouse was quiet, too quiet. A cracked space between identities, with peeling wallpaper and a mattress too thin to hold sleep. It wasn't home. Nowhere was.
Cole had called twice. She didn't pick up. She couldn't—not yet. Not with Luca still in her bloodstream like a slow-acting poison.
Her phone vibrated again. A message this time.
COLE: "We need to talk. De Rossi's making moves. And someone made you."
Her chest tightened.
She'd known it couldn't last—the act, the proximity, the excuses. She was too deep. She'd gone in with a wire and come out wrapped in silk sheets.
Now it was all unraveling.
She opened the drawer again, stared at the badge for a second too long, then shut it.
She had twenty minutes to make it to the warehouse before Cole bailed. Twenty minutes to decide which version of herself walked through that door.
---
Later — Industrial Warehouse, Lower Manhattan
"Tell me it isn't true," Cole said before she could speak.
He didn't mean the case. He meant him.
Emilia pulled her coat tighter and leaned against a crate. "I slept with him. That's what you want to hear, right? Say it out loud and get it over with."
Cole cursed under his breath. "Do you know what you've done? He's not just a mark. He's Moretti. You've jeopardized—"
"No," she cut in. "I got closer. I did what neither of us could do from behind a desk."
He stepped forward. "At what cost?"
There it was—the unspoken line. The edge they weren't supposed to cross. But Cole didn't know what it was like to look into the devil's eyes and feel something human staring back.
"He's testing me," she said, quieter now. "He knows something's off."
"And what happens when he finds out who you really are?"
Emilia looked away. "Then I burn."
---
Meanwhile — Moretti Gallery, Surveillance Room
A low beep signaled a new file.
Luca stood over the console, arms crossed, watching grainy footage on a private screen. Not of the De Rossi gala. Not of his own penthouse.
Of her—Emilia Hart—sneaking into the lower archives of the gallery two days ago.
He hadn't stopped the playback.
Because he needed to know what was worse: that she was a spy…
Or that he still wanted her anyway.
Dante De Rossi — Midnight — De Rossi Estate, Private Study
The cigar smoke curled like fingers, slow and deliberate, tracing the edges of the oil paintings that lined the walls. Men in frames stared down at him—his father, his grandfather, the long line of kings who built their empire on blood and beauty.
Dante didn't believe in ghosts.
He believed in leverage.
"She's not just a pretty face," he said, voice dry as vermouth. "She's law enforcement. Quiet, embedded. Possibly federal."
Across the room, a man shifted uncomfortably—Matteo, his head of intel. The poor bastard looked like he wanted to melt into the leather chair.
"We have solid proof?" Dante asked, even though he already knew the answer.
Matteo nodded, sliding a file forward. "Code name: Persephone. Assigned to a multi-agency operation targeting high-value syndicates. She's been working under deep cover for nearly a year."
Dante smiled without humor. "And Luca Moretti just so happened to hire her at his gallery. Sleep with her. Take her to my party."
He crushed the end of the cigar into crystal glass.
Power was a flavor. And Dante preferred his rare.
He leaned back in the crimson leather booth of the Velvet Room, a private lounge tucked behind false walls and guarded by men who'd kill before asking questions. Jazz curled like smoke through the air, curling around gold-lipped whiskey glasses and promises whispered into necks.
But Dante wasn't here for pleasure tonight.
He was here for blood.
Across from him, a man trembled behind designer sunglasses. Old money. New fear. His fingers twitched as he tried to light a cigarette with hands that had clearly never touched a trigger.
"You lied to me," Dante said, voice calm, low, dangerous. "And I don't like liars."
"I—I didn't mean to mislead you, Mr. De Rossi. I was just told—"
"You were told what, exactly?" Dante interrupted, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "That Moretti had no idea the Feds were sniffing around his gallery? That his latest acquisition wasn't bait?"
The man swallowed. "The girl. The new one. She… she's not just a gallerist."
Dante smiled slowly. "No. She's not."
He slid a photograph across the table. Black and white. Blurry. Taken from a rooftop camera across from Moretti's penthouse. Emilia Hart, hair loose, stepping into Luca's building just after midnight.
Another photo. Her leaving. Alone. 5:03 AM.
"She's too clean," Dante said softly. "No priors. No ties. Her resume's art school fiction and curated charm. And Luca's not the kind of man who trusts charm."
He downed the rest of his drink.
"I don't know what she is yet. But I'm going to find out."
The man across from him hesitated. "And… if she's FBI?"
Dante leaned in.
"Then she dies."
---
Later — De Rossi Private Office
The walls were lined with curated chaos—stolen canvases, weapons from every continent, and a Rembrandt that had once hung in a Dutch cathedral before vanishing into "private collection" hell. His father's legacy.
Dante stared at the security monitors flicking across a bank of screens. Footage from the gala. Footage from the gallery. Footage from Luca's penthouse—obtained through a planted surveillance drone.
And there she was again.
Emilia Hart.
A ghost in stilettos.
"Track her," he said to the man in the chair beside him. "Every step. Every call. I want her wired tighter than her heels."
The tech nodded.
Dante's smile was slow and satisfied. "Let's see how long she can dance before she snaps."
---
Earlier That Week – The Dead Drop, Central Park
Unbeknownst to Emilia, the envelope she dropped into the hollow of the statue hadn't reached Cole.
Dante's man had intercepted it.
Now it lay open on his desk—inside, a partial report with names, shipments, and gallery backdoor schedules.
He read it once. Then again.
Then he picked up his phone and dialed a secure line.
"Luca Moretti has a mole," he said when the call connected. "And I know exactly how to make him bleed for it."