Page 23 of Veil of Obsession

Mother arches a perfectly sculpted brow, taking in the black tulle, the sheer draping, the way the fabric drinks the light instead of reflecting.

Her lips purse in disapproval. “You’ll look like you’re going to a nineteenth-century funeral.”

I resist the urge to tighten my grip on the fabric. “It’s understated.”

“It’s dull,” she corrects sharply. “Where is the color? The embellishment? This is a charity ball, not a wake.”

I meet her gaze. “I don’t want to stand out.”

She laughs—a sharp, short sound. “Don’t be ridiculous. You are supposed to stand out. You’re a Gambi.”

“No,” I say, leveling my voice. “I just want to blend in.”

Her amusement vanishes like smoke.

“You aremydaughter,” she says, voice low and dangerous, the way it always is when she feels defied. “And my daughter does not fade into the background like some…forgettable little thing.”

I know how this goes. How sheexpectsthis to go. She wants me to bend, to bow, to smooth things over before she decides I need a lesson in obedience.

I don’t. I hold her gaze. “I’m wearing this.”

Her fingers twitch against the delicate stem of her glass. For a moment, the room is silent—only the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, the careful breath of the dressmaker, and the tension stretching between us like a drawn wire.

Then, just as suddenly, she exhales and leans back against the chaise. “Fine.”

That’s it. No slap. No shattered glass on the floor. No raised voice. But I know better than to think I’ve won. She’s letting this go fornow.

She picks up her glass, swirling the liquid inside. “But don’t think for a second there won’t be consequences.”

I say nothing. There’s nothing to say. I have what I want. And as long as I blend in on the night of the ball, nothing else matters.

My uncle liveson the Gambi estate, which sits at the edge of New York City, an opulent fortress of glass and steel, perched high enough to make the skyline look like it belongs to them. The weight of its security is invisible but ever-present: cameras tucked into corners, armed men who don’t bother pretending they aren’t watching. Even the air smells like power, expensive cigars, and control.

I’m escorted inside without question. They know better than to stop me. Uncle Stefano is waiting in his office, feet propped up on the edge of his desk, a glass of dark amber liquid in his hand. He looks up as I enter, his sharp eyes skimming over me with the same assessing gaze he’s given me since I was a child. Calculating. Always watching. He’s my dad’s half-brother, and only a couple of years older than me.

“Princess,” he drawls, like the name is an inside joke only he gets. “You’re a long way from home.”

I offer a small smile, carefully measured. “I was in the area.”

A lie, but we both know that. His office is sleek, all dark wood and leather, with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city. A few open crates sit in the corner, stacks of black rifle cases beside them. Nothing is out of place. Nothing is ever out of place with my uncle.

I settle into the chair across from him, crossing my legs, mirroring his ease. “I figured it’s been a while since we’ve caught up.”

He tilts his glass, watching the liquid swirl. “Is that what this is? A social call?”

I keep my expression unreadable. “Would that be so strange?”

His lips twitch like he might smile, but it never quite forms. He takes a slow sip of his drink, then sets the glass down with a deliberate click.

“Depends,” he says. “You don’t usually make time for your family unless you really want something. And it’s not like your mother is fond of me.”

The words land between us, heavy and unspoken. I don’t flinch.

“Maybe I just missed you,” I say smoothly. “Youaremy favorite half-uncle.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “I’m your only half-uncle.”

I shrug, leaning back in my chair. “Still counts.”