My entrance

~ KAIA’S POV ~

I return to my hotel almost in a jiffy, my heels clicking fast on the marble floor as if they carry the weight of my urgency. My pulse is still unsettled from what I overheard at the bar. The men’s careless words circle in my mind, echoing like whispers in a hollow room.

The bride’s name—Mira.

I rush inside my room, slam the door shut, and practically throw myself on the bed with my laptop already opening. My fingers fly across the keys as I search her name. The internet loads her picture, and instantly my eyes widen, disbelief flooding me, but also… satisfaction.

“She’s the girl,” I whisper aloud, my gaze glued to the glowing screen.

Mira. That fragile little girl. I saved her once, back then, from ending her life on the edge of a rooftop. Her aunt had clasped my hands with tears streaming down her cheeks, thanking me as though I had rescued diamonds from the clutches of a thief. That day burned into my memory, but I never thought it would circle back to this moment.

Now it gives me leverage. A perfect, undeniable bridge into her world. Into that wedding.

According to what those men said, the ceremony takes place a day after tomorrow. That leaves me with nothing but fleeting hours and one shot at securing an invitation.

“La Notte di Carità Vellaccio,” I murmur, reading an Italian sentence that sits boldly beneath Mira’s page. My brows knit.

I grab my translator.

The words appear, and I read them slowly, lips parting: “A charity event?”

A short laugh escapes me. “Mafia’s host charity events? Oh, that’s different.” I tilt my head, staring at the page, amusement tugging at the corners of my lips. Maybe they’re not all the devils the world paints them to be. Maybe.

Except one. Vittorio.

I grit my teeth at the thought of him. The devil in flesh. The reason I’m trapped in this mess.

Still, this charity event—this polished mask of goodwill will be my window. My entrance to Mira. I’m not going there to sip wine or dance under chandeliers. No, I’m going to weave my way into her trust, into her circle, until I stand close enough to the wedding itself.

My chest rises and falls as I stare at her photo again. She’s grown now, beautiful, radiant, so different from the trembling girl I pulled back years ago.

The event starts at sunset. My eyes dart to the clock. An hour. Just one hour to transform myself into someone who belongs in that hall.

I spring from the bed and rush into the bathroom. The water cascades over me, hot and fast, washing away the sweat of panic but not the weight of fear. My mind races even in the shower. My son’s face flashes before me, his small smile, his innocent eyes, then Rodriguez’s cruel smirk replaces it.

When I step out, I don’t waste a second. I slip into a dinner gown, elegant but not excessive. A dress that whispers sophistication without screaming for attention. My hands glide over silk, smoothing wrinkles, while my heart beats like a war drum.

At the mirror, I twist my hair into a sleek bun, letting a few curls tumble across my face deliberately. Not too rigid, not too careless. Perfect balance.

I stare at my reflection, clench my fists, and whisper, “Go get that invitation and get this over with.”

My phone sits on the nightstand. No new message. No video. Nothing from Rodriguez. I swallow a lump in my throat. He’s using my helplessness, squeezing it like a weapon to push me into this impossible task. He’s too much of a coward to face Vittorio himself, so he sends me, dangling my son as the bait.

Simp.

I grab my clutch, slip into my heels, and stride out of the room. The sharp clicks of my shoes echo against the floor like a countdown.

“Have a great time, ma’am,” the receptionist calls with a bright smile.

I nod politely, masking the storm inside, and head straight out to hail a taxi.

---

“Cheers!” The crowd erupts the moment I step inside the grand hall.

The place is alive—glittering chandeliers hang like frozen fireworks above, golden light spilling over faces dressed in wealth. The air hums with chatter, laughter, and the faint notes of live violins. To my surprise, the room isn’t only filled with the high and mighty; middle-class donors mingle as well, all caught in the orbit of the Vellaccio clan.

My gaze sharpens. Security lines the corners, black suits and darker sunglasses, their stances rigid, their eyes hidden but alert. Authority laces the air. I feel it pressing against my skin, cold and heavy.

And then I see her. Mira.

She sits across the hall like a princess carved from dreams, her red dinner gown catching every flicker of light. Her hair flows down, silky and flawless, as though the years since that night have only polished her into someone untouchable.

A man, middle-aged, broad, commanding, speaks into the microphone on stage. The crowd claps at his every pause, every gesture. I barely listen. My eyes are locked on Mira.

A waiter approaches with a tray of cocktails. I take one, letting the glass chill my hand, but my focus doesn’t waver.

Then it happens. Mira rises from her seat, her gown flowing behind her like liquid fire. She exits gracefully, making her way toward the hall’s edge, likely to the restroom.

“Now’s your chance,” my mind whispers.

I rise quickly, clutching my phone to my ear as if I’m mid-conversation. My pace is steady but deliberate, tracing her path.

A bodyguard shadows her, silent and sharp-eyed. My pulse spikes, but I remind myself—he won’t follow her into the restroom.

And I’m right. She disappears into the VIP toilet, the guard halting nearby, stone-faced.

I slide casually into the regular restroom, keeping my act alive, the phone pressed to my ear, my ears tuned for her return.

Minutes drag. My nerves tangle. Then, finally, she emerges.

This is it.

I step forward, deliberately colliding into her. My phone clatters to the ground.

“Hey, watch it,” Mira says, not unkindly, but with a spark of awareness.

“I’m so sor—” The words hang in the air, unfinished, because her gaze narrows, recognition dawning.

“You. I know you,” she breathes, her voice low but certain.

My eyes widen, feigning confusion. “Huh? Have we met?”

“Yes. I remember. You’re the lady who saved me that night.”

Shock floods my face, though inside I’m reeling with triumph.

“Mira?” I whisper, acting surprised.

She smiles and suddenly pulls me into a hug, her arms tight with gratitude. My breath hitches at the sudden closeness.

“Thank you so much,” she says, her voice breaking slightly.

I steady my tone, soft but humble. “Thank goodness I was there just in time.”

She releases me, her eyes glistening. “Please, come see my father.”

My stomach flips, but I keep my mask intact.

“No, dear, you’ve already thanked me enough,” I reply gently.

Her lips press into a pout, her voice pleading like a child’s. “No, it won’t take long. Just five minutes.”

My heart races, but I nod, my head bowing as though I hadn’t already planned this moment down to the breath.

Inside, I whisper to myself: The game has just begun.