Chapter 5 – The Blood & The Ballroom
Valentina Cruz
I was raised to believe there were only two kinds of fancy events in life: weddings and funerals.
Turns out, the mafia likes to combine the vibes of both.
The ballroom was massive — all chandeliers, velvet drapes, and gold trim so sharp it looked like it could cut skin. Bodies moved like shadows under low lighting, dressed in tailored suits and gowns that probably cost more than my student loans. And the music? Low, brooding, the kind that made your spine straighten whether you wanted to or not.
I stood at the top of the staircase, fingers twitching at the sides of the blood-red satin dress I'd been forced into.
It fit perfectly.
Of course it did.
Rafael didn't do accidents.
⸻
"Don't trip," came a deep voice at my shoulder.
I turned to see Rafael beside me — tall, elegant in his signature black-on-black, and looking for all the world like the devil on the cover of GQ.
"You're late," I said coolly.
"You're early," he replied.
"I wanted time to plan my escape route."
His lip twitched. "Charming."
"Are you actually bringing me into your world?" I asked. "Or am I just arm candy tonight?"
He looked down at me, his gaze lingering a half-second too long on the bare curve of my shoulder.
"You're my wife," he said. "Tonight, that means everything."
⸻
We descended the stairs together — and I swear, every neck in the room turned like a horror movie scene. Faces stared. Whispered. Judged.
Some of them smiled. But the kind of smile people give before they shoot.
I plastered on the same one I used during oral presentations — please like me, please don't kill me — and let Rafael's hand rest lightly on the small of my back.
It burned like a brand.
⸻
Camilla appeared like a shadow beside us, dressed in emerald silk and holding a glass of champagne.
"I warned you," she murmured. "You look edible."
I gave her a sideways glare. "Are all of his enemies here?"
"Most of them," she replied. "Some even brought dates."
"And I'm guessing the safe word isn't 'pineapple.'"
She smiled, sipped her drink, and vanished into the crowd.
⸻
As the evening dragged on, I played my role.
Smiled politely.
Spoke when spoken to.
Laughed at a joke I didn't understand because the man telling it had a scar running from his temple to his jaw and I wasn't trying to die tonight.
Then, from across the room, I saw her.
The ex.
Of course there was an ex.
She looked like an assassin and a runway model had a baby — raven hair, blood-red lips, and a dress that looked spray-painted on. Her eyes locked on mine, then on Rafael, and her smirk said "I've been in his bed and you're just keeping it warm."
I turned to Rafael. "Who's that?"
"Elena," he said simply. "We used to be… aligned."
"Politically or horizontally?"
His jaw tightened. "Both."
"Charming."
"She doesn't matter."
"Neither do I," I said flatly. "Remember?"
He looked at me then. Really looked.
And in that moment, with all hell dressed in satin around us, he reached for my hand.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Possessive.
His fingers brushed mine like he was asking — not taking.
I should've pulled away.
But I didn't.
⸻
Later, during the dance, he led me to the center of the ballroom.
No escape.
Just spotlights and silence as a violinist began to play something slow and haunting.
His hand slid to my waist.
I tensed.
"I don't know how to dance," I whispered.
"Yes, you do," he replied. "You just forgot you're not powerless."
That hit deeper than it should've.
So I lifted my chin, placed my hand in his, and let him lead.
One step.
Two.
A spin that stole my breath and landed me against his chest.
His breath was warm against my ear when he said, "You're doing well."
"Not my first hostage situation," I muttered.
He chuckled. Quiet and low.
And suddenly, the danger in the room wasn't outside us anymore.
It was between us.
Crackling. Rising. Unspoken.
⸻
When the dance ended, he leaned down and brushed his lips just above my cheekbone.
Not quite a kiss.
But enough to short-circuit my brain.
And when I looked up at him — ready to fire off something smart — I saw him already staring.
Not like a man who owned me.
But like a man who recognized me.
It scared the hell out of me.