Chapter 5 Shield Me

Ettore danced like a man who had learned from private instructors instead of instinct. 

Every movement was technically flawless, every step measured and smooth beneath the glow of the chandeliers while the orchestra swelled around us in slow sweeping notes that echoed softly across marble and crystal. His hand rested against my waist with practised confidence, warm through the silk of my dress as he guided me across the ballroom floor alongside couples glittering beneath gold light and diamonds. 

It should have felt romantic. It didn’t. Instead, it felt choreographed. Like every other part of this evening. 

“You look tense,” Ettore murmured. 

I glanced up at him lazily. “You say that like you’re surprised.” 

“You’re drawing attention.” 

“I’m wearing six pounds of diamonds and enough white silk to blind a priest. Attention was inevitable.” 

His mouth curved faintly, though the expression never fully reached his eyes. “You could at least try to enjoy yourself.” 

I almost laughed at that. But no, he wasn’t going to get that kind of reaction from me so easily. I let my gaze drift beyond his shoulder toward the edge of the ballroom where Luca and Leon remained stationed near the crowd, both watching the room with an intensity that now felt impossible to ignore. 

Leon caught me looking first. Again. 

The bastard smiled slowly this time, amusement flashing briefly across his face before he lifted two fingers toward me in the faintest mock salute, the gesture carrying just enough sarcasm to make heat curl unexpectedly through my chest. 

God. The man flirted like he was trying to get assassinated at a mafia engagement party. 

I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself smiling back too obviously. 

Luca noticed the exchange almost immediately. Of course he did. 

Even from across the ballroom, I felt the weight of his attention settle against me, steady and unreadable beneath the storm-dark sharpness of his eyes. 

I watched Luca lean slightly toward his brother, his mouth moving in a few low clipped words I couldn’t hear over the orchestra, and Leon’s smirk only deepened in response, lazy amusement flashing openly across his face like he was being scolded and thoroughly enjoying every second of it. 

God. Everything about that man felt dangerous in a quieter way than Leon. 

Leon looked like temptation. 

Luca looked like consequences. 

And unfortunately for my mental stability, I had always been strangely attracted to things that come with terrible consequences. 

“You’re doing it again,” Ettore said. 

I blinked back toward him. “Doing what?” 

“Drifting.” 

“Well, in my defence, your conversation skills aren’t exactly holding me hostage.” 

His jaw tightened slightly. A small crack in his perfect composure. And another tiny victory for me. 

The orchestra swept into another turn of the song, and Ettore guided me through it smoothly, one hand firm against my waist while lightning flickered silver beyond the towering ballroom windows. Rain battered steadily against the glass now, harder than before, the storm fully wrapped around the estate outside while thunder rolled low enough to vibrate faintly beneath the marble floors. 

“You’re distracted tonight,” Ettore said quietly. 

“Maybe because this engagement feels less like a celebration and more like a hostage negotiation.” 

“That attitude is exactly why your father worries about you.” 

I laughed softly under my breath. “No, Ettore. My father worries about losing control of me. There’s a difference.” 

His expression hardened slightly then, some more of the polished charm cracking around the edges. “You speak as though this marriage is a punishment.” 

I looked at him honestly for the first time all evening. 

“It is.” 

For a moment, genuine irritation flashed across his face before he smoothed it away beneath another perfect social smile as nearby couples drifted past us beneath the chandelier light. 

“You’ll learn,” he said calmly, though the softness in his tone felt rehearsed rather than real. “This marriage benefits everyone.” 

“That’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me,” I murmured. “Hold my purse while I swoon.” 

Lightning cracked suddenly outside, brighter this time, illuminating the ballroom windows in violent silver flashes that briefly washed the room in cold white light before the gold returned. 

And in that split second of brightness, I saw Luca moving. 

He was hauling ass. Fast. Not toward us, though, toward the far western entrance. 

Every instinct in my body tightened. The music continued playing. The dancers continued moving. But Luca’s hand had already disappeared beneath his suit jacket. 

My pulse stumbled hard against my ribs. 

“Ettore,” I said sharply. 

He frowned slightly. “What?” 

For one fleeting ridiculous second, I almost convinced myself the twins were simply paranoid, that the storm and the tension and Luca’s sharpened focus had infected my imagination too, because the orchestra still played and couples still danced and the ballroom still glittered beneath gold light like something untouchable. 

Then the lights went out. The ballroom vanished into darkness so suddenly that the orchestra cut off mid-note beneath a chorus of startled screams, crystal shattering somewhere to my left as the room dissolved instantly from glittering luxury into blind chaos. 

Gunfire exploded near the entrance. Not just one shot. Several. Firing in rapid succession in a deafening roar. 

The sound tore through the ballroom hard enough to vibrate through my chest while guests screamed and dropped toward the marble floor around us, tables overturning as bodies surged blindly through the dark. 

Before I could even react, Ettore grabbed me. His arm locked around my waist while his body pressed tightly against my back, dragging me flush against his chest with enough force to knock the breath from my lungs. 

For one disoriented heartbeat, relief hit me. Protection. 

Instinctively, stupidly, I thought he was shielding me. 

Then another shot cracked through the darkness, and Ettore jerked me tighter against him. Not behind him, in front. 

My stomach dropped cold. His grip wasn’t protective. It was the desperate grip of a coward, using me to shield himself. I could actually feel him trying to make himself smaller against my back while using my body to cover his. 

The realisation hit so violently I actually froze for a second, shock crashing through me harder than the gunfire itself while his fingers dug painfully into my ribs. 

“Ettore,” I gasped. He didn’t answer. 

People screamed around us while thunder shook the estate outside, and somewhere nearby, glass exploded inward, rain and wind tearing violently through the ballroom. 

Then the emergency lights flickered on. Red. The entire ballroom reappeared in brutal crimson flashes. Bodies crouched behind overturned tables. Security shouting over gunfire. Champagne and shattered glass covered the marble floor like glittering ice. And standing directly in front of us, only three or four feet away, was a man in black tactical gear wearing a mask over the lower half of his face. 

He raised his gun, pointing it straight at us. 

Time seemed to fracture strangely around the moment. I remember seeing the black barrel lifting. Remember the red emergency lighting reflecting off the metal. Remember my own pulse roaring so loudly it drowned out half the room.  

I felt his hands tighten suddenly against my waist. His breathing turned sharp against the back of my neck, panicked and uneven, and for one horrible second, I realised he wasn’t trying to save me. 

He was trying to save himself. 

And then Ettore shoved me. 

Not away from the danger. Directly into it.