CHANGE THE WRITING

CHANGE THE WRITING


Layla's POV

I had no clue what this was. A mansion? A lair? A hall of masks and lies? All I knew was that the moment I got out of the black car in my sparkly dress, I wished I could disappear.

My heels clicked the highly polished black marble floor as Marcelo extended his hand towards me. I hesitated, running my fingers over the fine velvet of his jacket sleeve. The air was dark, rich, raucous, filled with perfume, smoke, and authority. Everyone wore masks. Gilded, feathered, black velvet, silver-studded—there was no face without a mask but mine.

Marcelo had taken me to a masquerade of death.

They stared. Or I imagined they did. Their masked gazes tracked me, necks slightly swiveling as we passed by. I was candy in a pack of wolves, sugar in blood-red silk and bare.

I made myself stand tall with my back straight and chin up, but my steps faltered. I stepped toward Marcelo as if in a daze, though every part of me was screaming that this man didn't deserve to be my haven. He was the reason I was here. He had dragged me out of my life and left me in this one of darkness and whispers.

And his hand was warm.

"Relax," he breathed, leaning into my ear. His breath was warm and inviting. "You're safe as can be if I'm around."

Safe. Was that what this was?

Because nothing about this felt safe.

Marcelo's POV

The deal was simple. Get Layla to the party, get her seen, and start negotiating with the buyers. Nicholas wanted to use her as leverage, as an offering for winning approval from a rival mafia family. She was a million-dollar asset, in information, in reputation, and in keeping quiet.

That was their plan. Not mine.

From the time I stepped into Layla's holding room tonight and saw her huddled up on the chaise in that dress, looking like rage encased in despair, I knew I was too far in.

My idea, the dress had been—blood red and cut up the thigh, shining like she owned the stars themselves that were stitched into the material. She wore a diamond choker around her neck, thin enough to be decorative, tight enough to be significant. My chest constricted.

I was the villain in her fairy tale. And still, she grasped for my arm.

"You didn't say to bring me to a masquerade," she'd responded, teeth clenched, her eyes darting about the room.

"Do you mind? You're lovely."

"This is not the moment for flattery, Marcelo. Where the devil are we?"

I snagged a flute of champagne from a passing tray and extended it to her. "Drink. You'll be able to breathe easier."

She retreated a step, her expression becoming even more florid. "I am not drinking a thing in this place."

God, she was smart.

I smiled faintly. "I approve of your suspicion. But I promise you, no one is going to hurt you. Not if you're with me."

Her expression grew narrower. "Why should I not be comforted?"

I jerked my head aside, jaw locking. Because you shouldn't.

I spotted Costanzo across the room, talking to two men in masks dressed in gray. The bidders. One of them glanced at Layla.

I clenched my teeth.

"Do you want to dance?" I asked brusquely, trying to change the topic of the evening. If I could delay the conversation, get a few seconds' grace.

"Seriously? Dance? Here? With everything that's going on?"

I shrugged, trying not to care. "Pretend it's a ball. Pretend you're not here against your will. Just for five minutes."

She looked at me as if she were constructing a puzzle she did not like. I knew the look. She was reading me, studying each word, each wrinkle on my face.

"No, thank you," she said flatly.

"Then stay close to me. Don't talk to anyone. And if something goes wrong—"

"Something already went wrong," she spat.

I nodded. Fair.

I saw a movement out of the shadows. Enrico was nodding to me—it was time to spring her. To reveal her like a diamond at auction.

I couldn't. Not tonight.

"Stay here," I said to her.

Her hand emerged, clutching my jacket sleeve. "No. Don't leave me alone here."

God help me.

"Five minutes," I said softly. "I'll be right back."

She loosened her grip, but hesitantly. But her eyes never wavered.


The violins swelled, casting a sheered beauty over the masked ball. Light danced off crystal chandeliers, falling onto hard glint of champagne flutes and beaded masks. Word had already passed. Whispers muffled spread through velvet curtains and around painted faces. The deal was made. Layla would be danced into the hands of the goons in blue masks. They held money. Papers. And she.

The plan was supposed to be perfect.

But it wasn't my plan.

She had no idea, but each brush of each passing hand against her shoulder tonight could be the last friendly touch she'd ever experience. She was being hunted like prey. The awareness sent something hot through my chest. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was rage. Maybe it was both.

She stood stiff in my arms, her fingers cold although the ballroom was warm. The scent of blood under perfume made her shiver again. She did not say anything, but her body did.

I leaned in closer as we danced, close enough for her alone to overhear.
"You're shaking," I whispered. "It's just a party."
Her gaze scanned from one featureless mask to the other. "This is not a party," she told them. "This is a parade of wolves."

Bright girl.

Still, I bestowed upon her a twisted smile, then whirled her around the curve of my arm. She danced well despite being nervous. She was frightened, yet within that fright, she moved with grace. My hand rested lower on her back than it ought to have, placing her where I needed her to be.

Ten more seconds only.

Blue-masked bastards were moving in. Three of them. Two on either side, one to take her hand in mid-whirl. They were confident. Arrogant. Fools.

I whirled her brutally in the opposite direction.

The lead goon's hand shot out into the air and clutched only scent.

"What—?"

Layla stumbled toward the edge of the floor, out of balance, against the silk-draped table she steadied herself. Her eyes widened as she realized I'd sent her the wrong way. The wrong way for us, the right way for me.

Because now I was where she'd be.

And the goons?

They were confused.

Ten seconds. That's all it took.

A red-masked woman appeared out of the mob like a ghost. She was Layla's identical twin. Same lip shape. Same color. Same goddamn dress. My duplicate. She strode toward me with her hand out, looking smoother than silk. The goons didn't even notice the swap.

I ironed out my collar and stepped away from the center of the floor, taking slow breaths. One. Two. Three.

The ballroom noise surrounded their motion. Within the crowd, no one noticed one girl vanish and another fade.

Layla lingered in the shadows, eyes wide with shock.

I walked up to her, pushing a curl back behind her ear gently. "You alright?"

She blinked. "What the fuck just happened?"

"I shifted the story," I whispered. "You were never going to be a part of their conclusion.”