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Chapter One

Viviana

The gallery is flawless—because I made it that way.

The air hums with soft conversation and the delicate clink of champagne glasses.

The Renaissance paintings on display glow as if they were alive. Each piece was chosen with meticulous care.

I’ve spent the last six months ensuring tonight’s exhibit is a success. My success.

I weave through the crowd with ease, exchanging handshakes and polite smiles with potential investors. Every word, every carefully crafted pitch, is one step closer to my dream of opening my own gallery.

It feels tangible tonight, like if I reach just a little further, I might actually grasp it.

A waiter passes by, and I snag a flute of Prosecco. Taking a sip, I glance around the room, letting my gaze drift over the faces in the crowd.

That's when I see him.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Unshaken.

He leans against the far wall, one hand in his pocket, the other loose at his side. The precision of his suit is striking.

But it’s not the cut of the fabric that makes him stand out. It’s the way the air shifts around him. Like he’s not just in the room—he owns the room.

Our eyes meet for a fleeting moment, and something about his gaze makes my skin prickle.

His attention feels heavy, intentional, even when he looks away.

I shake off the thought and move toward an older donor I’ve been courting for weeks.

Focus, Viviana. No distractions.

As I finish my pitch, a low, familiar voice cuts through the hum of the crowd. “Viviana.”

My stomach drops. I freeze, gripping the champagne flute a little too tightly, and slowly turn.

It’s my father, Antonio.

I haven’t seen him in over a year, not since the last time he begged for money and disappeared with it. He looks worse than I remember—his suit is wrinkled, his hair more gray than dark brown, and his face is drawn.

He reaches for my arm, his grip firm as he steers me toward a quiet corner of the gallery.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he hisses.

I pull my arm free and glare at him. “What are you talking about? This is my event. You’re the one who doesn’t belong here.”

His eyes dart around the room, scanning the crowd like he expects someone to jump out of the shadows. His paranoia sends a chill through me, but I push it down. This is typical Dad, always running from the messes he’s made.

“You need to leave Milan,” he says, voice low and urgent. “It’s not safe for you here.”

I cross my arms, keeping my voice calm but edged. “What is this about? Is another debt collector breathing down your neck?”

His jaw tightens, but the fear in his eyes deepens. “It’s not about me. It’s about you. Romeo Valenti knows who you are.”

The name makes my stomach twist, though I force my face to stay neutral. Romeo Valenti. The Revenant.

His name is whispered in the shadows of this city, and his power stretches far beyond it. People don’t cross him and live to tell the story.

“You’re being paranoid,” I say, forcing steadiness into my voice. “Romeo Valenti has no reason to care about me.”

Dad’s hand lands on my shoulder, gripping too tightly. “Your name, Viviana. That’s reason enough. You don’t understand the kind of man he is. If he…”

I shrug off his hand, the sharpness in my tone cutting him off. “I don’t have time for this, Dad. Go clean up your own messes for once. I’m not going anywhere.”

His face pales, and for a fleeting moment, I wonder if he’s genuinely afraid. Not for himself—but for me. Then I remind myself that he’s always been good at playing the concerned father when it suits him.

“Viviana,” he says, his voice trembling, “you don’t understand. Leave Milan tonight.”

I shake my head, stepping back. “Goodbye, Dad.”

I turn sharply and walk away, my heels clicking against the polished floor. As I rejoin the crowd, I catch sight of that tall, dark-haired man again. His eyes are on me, steady and assessing, and for a second, it feels like he knows something I don’t.

A strange ripple of unease washes over me, but I push it aside. I don’t have time for fear. Not tonight. My dreams are too close, and I won’t let my father—or anyone else—ruin them.

The air feels heavier as I step back into the gallery, the elegant hum of conversation washing over me.

I force a smile, lifting my flute of champagne to my lips as I weave through the clusters of guests. They don’t see the cracks in my composure, and I’m determined to keep it that way.

“Viviana, darling, this exhibit is exquisite,” coos Claudia, one of my wealthiest donors. She leans in, her excessive perfume prickling my senses, and air kisses both my cheeks. “You’ve outdone yourself this time.”

“Thank you, Claudia,” I say warmly, slipping into the practiced charm I’ve perfected. “It wouldn’t have been possible without your generosity. You’ve truly brought this vision to life.”

Her eyes light up at the flattery, and she waves her jeweled hand dismissively. “Oh, nonsense. Talent like yours doesn’t need my help. When are you finally going to open your own gallery? You know I’d be your first investor.”

“Soon, I hope,” I reply, keeping my tone light, even as my father’s words echo in my mind.

Romeo Valenti knows who you are.

The name vibrates through me, an unwelcome specter. I push it away, but the weight of it lingers, dragging at the edges of my thoughts.

Claudia moves on to compliment another guest, leaving me free to breathe for a moment. I sip my champagne, scanning the room, my gaze flickering over the faces. Polished. Elegant. Safe. Yet the shadows seem to stretch longer and darker tonight.

“Hey, babe!

I turn around and grin when I see Francesca, one of my closest friends and another artist, walking up to me. We share a hug and she kisses my cheek.

“This is amazing,” she praises my work all around us.

“Thank you,” I say as my cheeks get pink. “It’s been a lot of work to get here.”

“You’ve earned it,” she says to me. “I wanted to be sure to come by even though my flight back to Italy leaves in just a few hours.”

“I’m so jealous of you getting to move there,” I say to her.

“Just like your work to get this gallery showing, it’s been a lot of work to get here,” she says to me with a wink.

“I’m happy for both of us,” I say to her, hugging her again.

“Viviana.” A voice pulls me from my conversation with Francesca, and I turn to see David, one of the gallery’s investors, standing next to me. His sharp suit and silver hair exude authority. “I’ve been waiting to congratulate you. This exhibit is remarkable.”

“Thank you, David.” I manage a genuine smile, shaking his hand. “I’m thrilled you could make it. It means a great deal to have your support.”

“You’re the rising star of Milan’s art world,” he says with a wink. “Though I have to admit, the competition is fierce. I’ve heard whispers that another curator is making waves. Perhaps a rival?”

“Rivalries keep us sharp,” I reply smoothly, but the word hits differently tonight. Rivalries. Enemies. Romeo Valenti.

David’s words fade into the background as my mind drifts again. My father’s face, pale and desperate, flashes behind my eyes. The fear in his voice wasn’t the kind of fear you fake.

“Viviana?” Marco’s voice sharpens, and I realize he’s been waiting for a response.

“I’m so sorry,” I say quickly, masking my distraction with a laugh. “My mind’s racing tonight. What were you saying?”

He chuckles. “Ah, the burden of brilliance. Don’t let me keep you. We’ll talk more later.”

I nod, offering another smile as he moves on, but the cracks in my facade feel wider now. The room is bright and alive, filled with laughter and admiration, but I can’t shake the feeling that it’s all a veneer.

***

The evening winds down as the crowd begins to thin, but I stay in motion, flitting between the remaining guests.

A nod here, a handshake there—every interaction is measured, a balance of charm and subtle strategy. My mind, however, remains divided, my focus stubbornly anchored to the undercurrent of unease left by my father’s warning.

I feel it again, the prickling sensation at the back of my neck, as though eyes are tracing my every move. My pulse quickens, and I scan the room casually, not wanting to draw attention to myself. Nothing seems out of place.

The remaining guests are familiar, faces I’ve either greeted tonight or recognized from past events. Yet, the sensation persists, creeping into my chest like a shadow I can’t quite catch.

A server passes with a tray of empty glasses, and I step aside to let him through, glancing toward the gallery entrance. The doorman stands there, his posture relaxed but alert, a tall and solid presence against the gleaming doors. I excuse myself from the conversation I’ve been half-listening to and make my way over.

“Giorgio,” I say quietly, smiling to soften my tone, “have you noticed anyone...unusual tonight? Someone lingering or acting out of place?”

His brow furrows slightly as he considers my question. “No, signorina. Just the usual crowd—art lovers, investors. Nothing suspicious.” He hesitates, lowering his voice. “Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing,” I reply quickly, brushing it off with a shake of my head. “I just…I’m being paranoid.”

He straightens, his professional demeanor kicking in. “I’ve been watching closely all evening. If there was a problem, I’d have dealt with it.”

His reassurance settles me, if only slightly. I thank him and linger near the doorway for a moment, watching as the last stragglers say their goodbyes. The space feels quieter now, the energy shifting from the earlier hum of excitement to a muted, almost eerie stillness.

Eventually, I decide it’s time to leave. Outside, the cool night air brushes against my skin, a welcome relief after hours of polite smiles and careful conversations.

I stand on the curb, waiting for the taxi I called, but the street remains frustratingly empty. After ten minutes, my patience wears thin.

The walk home isn’t far, just fifteen minutes or so through well-lit streets. I know the city like the back of my hand, and while there’s still a faint thread of unease pulling at me, I convince myself it’s nothing. Giorgio would have noticed if something were wrong.

I start walking, the sound of my heels clicking against the pavement a steady rhythm that echoes in the quiet. The city feels different at night, more intimate yet strangely distant.

The light from shop windows and streetlamps stretches across the pavement, casting long shadows that I force myself not to look at too closely.

Halfway home, the sensation returns—a prickling awareness that I’m not alone. My steps falter, and I glance over my shoulder, but the street is empty. There’s no one behind me, no footsteps to accompany mine.

“Get a grip, Viviana,” I mutter under my breath, shaking my head as I pick up my pace. It’s been a long night, and my father’s dramatics have clearly gotten under my skin.

Still, the feeling lingers, gnawing at the edges of my composure. I reach my apartment building and pause at the entrance, digging through my bag for my keys. That’s when I see it—a black car idling across the street.

Its tinted windows reveal nothing, the interior a dark void that offers no clue as to who—or what—is inside. My chest tightens as I fumble with my keys, suddenly aware of how exposed I am standing here.

The driver moves, just enough for me to catch the faint glow of a cigarette’s ember and the flash of a tattooed forearm resting on the open window. My stomach churns, and I force myself to look away, shoving the key into the lock and pushing the door open.

Inside, the familiar warmth of the lobby is both a comfort and a disappointment. I still feel the weight of that car’s presence, even as I press the elevator button and step inside.

When I reach my apartment, I waste no time locking the door behind me. My heart pounds as I drop my bag onto the kitchen counter and walk to the window. I pull the curtain aside, just enough to peek through without being seen.

The car is still there. The driver hasn’t moved, the cigarette now a faint wisp of smoke trailing into the night.

A part of me wants to call someone—Giorgio, maybe, or the police—but what would I even say? A car parked outside my building isn’t exactly a crime.

I step away from the window, my hands trembling slightly as I close the curtain. It’s probably nothing. Just a coincidence.

Deep down, I know better.