Bianca’s voice, honeyed with malice, hung in the air, a final, venomous note amidst the fractured glass and the scent of gunpowder. Isola felt a flicker of something in her chest, a phantom tremor that she instantly extinguished. “A wedding present,” Zeno repeated, his voice devoid of humor as he studied the dead assassin’s radio, then tossed it aside. “She’s impatient.” Visconte, having finished his work on the second assailant in the freight elevator bay, padded back into the studio, his muzzle dark with grime and something else. He nudged Isola’s hand, a low rumble vibrating in his chest, a silent question of her well-being. She ran a gloved hand over his head, a gesture of reassurance. Teodoro, however, was still a crumpled heap, clutching his twisted wrist, his face a mask of bewildered agony. His eyes darted between Isola, Zeno, and the dead man at their feet, as if trying to reconcile the elegant woman he’d discarded with the ruthless architect of this carnage. “Get him out,” Isola commanded, her voice flat, emotionless, to the security detail now swarming the studio. They moved with practiced efficiency, securing the perimeter, collecting the bodies, and guiding a bewildered Teodoro toward the exit. He stumbled, looking back at her, a silent plea in his eyes that she met with an impenetrable gaze. Zeno stood, brushing dust from his tailored trousers. “You have a graze,” Isola observed, pointing to a dark, seeping patch on his upper arm, where the sniper’s bullet had apparently nicked him before shattering the reinforced glass. “A scratch,” he dismissed, though a muscle ticked tight along his throat. “Your armory? We need to talk about that treaty.” The Palazzo’s subterranean armory was a study in cold steel and polished obsidian, a stark contrast to the opulent fashion ateliers above. Isola led Zeno past racks of custom-fabricated weaponry and biometric-locked vaults to a pristine medical station. She retrieved an antiseptic spray, surgical suture, and a curved suture pin, her movements precise. “Sit,” she instructed, indicating a high, ergonomic stool. Zeno complied, shedding his jacket. The wound was superficial, a clean furrow across his bicep, but deep enough to require stitches. The scent of sterile alcohol filled the confined space. Isola worked without a word, her brow furrowed in concentration. The tapered steel pierced Zeno’s skin, drawing a bead of crimson that she quickly dabbed away. He watched her, his expression unreadable, a silent intensity in his dark eyes. “You’re trembling,” he observed, his voice a low thrum that seemed to vibrate through the quiet room. Isola paused, suture held mid-air. “I am not.” Her voice was steady, but she felt a tremor deep within her, a ghost of a reaction she refused to acknowledge. The memory of the sniper’s shot, the splintering glass, the sudden pressure of Zeno tackling her – it was all there, filed away behind cold calculus. He reached out, his uninjured hand closing over her wrist, stopping her work. His touch was unexpectedly gentle, but firm. “Yes, you are, Principessa. Your hand, just a little. Not much, but enough for me to see.” Her gaze snapped to his. “It’s a natural physiological response to adrenaline. It means nothing.” “It means you’re human,” Zeno countered, his thumb stroking the pulse point on her wrist. A prickle of heat, sharp and unwelcome, flared across her skin. “You faced down a sniper, an assassin in your own home. And you didn’t flinch, not outwardly. But inside…” He leaned closer, his scent—cured leather and something wild, musky—enveloping her. “Inside, you felt it. You felt fear. You felt rage. You felt something.” Isola drew air slowly through her teeth. His eyes, the color of aged brandy, held hers, cutting straight past her defenses. He saw too much, too easily. It was unsettling. “Your grandfather told you never to bleed in public, didn’t he?” Zeno murmured, his gaze dropping to her mouth, then back to her eyes. “But this isn’t public, Isola. And it’s okay to bleed a little here.” His words were a chisel to the ice around her heart, a dangerous warmth spreading through her veins. He was so close. The air between them drew taut and brittle. She could feel his breath on her lips, a whisper of a promise, a question. Her gaze dropped to his mouth, full and unyielding. The forbidden pull was intoxicating, terrifying. A kiss, she knew, would obliterate her focus. *“Never bleed in public, my little viper,” her grandfather, Nonno Leone, had said, his gnarled hand gently tracing the curve of her jaw. She was barely eight, having just fallen from a tree, scraping her knee, but refusing to cry in front of the stable hands. “Show them strength, always. Let your rivals think you are made of stone. Let them think you feel nothing. The moment you show a weakness, a single drop of blood, they will be upon you like wolves.”* The memory, sharp and cold, washed over her. She pulled her wrist from Zeno’s grasp, the spell broken. The suture tool, forgotten for a moment, was back in her hand, her movements resuming with renewed, ruthless efficiency. “My grandfather also taught me that sentiment is a luxury no one in our position can afford.” She finished the last stitch, tying it off with a sharp tug. “Done.” Zeno’s expression tightened, a shadow crossing his face. He said nothing, simply watched her disinfect the wound, his earlier warmth replaced by a cool distance. He picked up his jacket, shrugging it on, concealing the bandage. The moment, charged and intimate, was over. Two days later, the ‘Aurelian Nocturne’ gala pulsed with the rhythm of Milan’s elite. It filled the grand, multi-tiered reception hall of the Palazzo di Seta, a labyrinth of gilded balconies and towering marble columns. Isola, clad in a gown of midnight blue silk that clung to her like a second skin, watched from a private, elevated booth. Visconte lay curled at her feet, a dark, protective shadow. This was her world now, not as Teodoro’s meek wife, but as its queen. Tonight, she would assert her dominion. On the crimson carpet below, Teodoro Galiano strode in, his arm wrapped possessively around Bianca Donati. Bianca wore an emerald gown that shimmered under the spotlights, a bold, almost defiant choice given the recent events. Her smile was saccharine, aimed directly at the flashing cameras. Isola raised a subtle hand, a signal to her head of security, Alessandra, stationed by the gala entrance. Alessandra’s earpiece crackled. A moment later, a hushed murmur rippled through the crowd as two imposing house enforcers, dressed in their sleek, black uniforms, approached Bianca. Bianca, still beaming for the cameras, faltered. Teodoro frowned, his hand instinctively tightening on her arm. “Is there a problem?” he demanded, his voice carrying just enough for the surrounding reporters to hear. “Signorina Donati,” one enforcer stated, his voice calm but unyielding. “House Chiaromonte regrets to inform you that your VIP status has been revoked. Furthermore, the gown you are wearing, model ‘Veridia Serpentina,’ has been flagged for repossession due to unauthorized appropriation of corporate property.” The cameras flashed furiously. Bianca’s face went white. “What are you talking about? I bought this gown!” she shrieked, her carefully constructed facade crumbling. The emerald silk, once a symbol of opulence, now felt like a shroud. “The payment was flagged as fraudulent,” the enforcer replied smoothly, holding out a tablet displaying a voided transaction. “We require its immediate return. You may change in the private lounge.” Humiliation burned hot on Bianca’s face. Teodoro, his face darkening with confusion and fury, tried to intervene. “This is ridiculous! Isola, what is this?!” he shouted, his voice echoing through the suddenly hushed ballroom. His arm, immobilized by a sling after Zeno’s earlier treatment, prevented him from moving with his usual arrogance. Isola merely lifted her champagne flute, a cool, indifferent gesture from her booth. A small, vindictive smile played on her lips. Bianca, tears of rage welling in her eyes, was led away, protesting vehemently, her emerald gown now an open spectacle of her downfall. Teodoro stood alone on the carpet, exposed, his image as a powerful magnate ruined. He met Isola’s gaze across the teeming floor, his eyes filled with a desperate, pleading anger. He was a man drowning, stripped of his perceived power, watching the woman he’d discarded not just survive, but dominate. Later, as the gala swirled around her, Isola remained in her booth, a queen observing her court. Teodoro, having shed Bianca and presumably found a less humiliating change of clothes, pushed his way through the throng, his tie askew, his hair slightly dishevelled. He looked like a man on the brink. He stopped before her booth, his gaze fixed on her. “Isola,” he began, his voice hoarse, raw with desperation. “I know… I know I made a mistake. A terrible, unforgivable mistake. But I can fix this. Just give me one minute. One minute of your time, and I’ll leave Bianca, I’ll leave everything. I’ll make it right. Just tell me what you want.” Isola looked at him, her face a mask of serene indifference. She parted her lips to deliver the cold, tactical rejection she had mentally rehearsed a hundred times. But before the words could form, her eyes, ever vigilant, caught a flicker of light from above. High above, nestled amidst the intricate scaffolding of the hall’s massive overhead lighting rig, a tiny, insistent red light blinked. Once. Twice. Then the entire colossal structure groaned, the steel cables snapping with a sickening shriek, and it began to plummet directly towards her booth.

Never Bleed in Public