Chapter 39- Finding the Killer

Chapter 39- Finding the Killer
ARIA’S POV

The shattered glass sparkled on the marble floor. Shards caught the chandelier light, glinting like tiny, cruel stars. My heart slammed against my ribs, so loud I swore Alessandro could hear it. I didn’t dare look at him. Not when every nerve in my body screamed with the truth I’d just seen.

“Miss Moretti.” His voice was low, sharp, cutting through the haze in my mind. “Are you okay?”

I nodded quickly, too quickly. My lips pressed into a tight smile. “Yes. I’m fine. My glass just slipped.”

He didn’t move. His eyes, those cold, piercing eyes, stayed on me. Suspicion carved into every line of his face. I could feel it, the weight of his stare, like he was peeling back my skin to see the chaos underneath. He wasn’t buying it. Not for a second.

I forced a laugh, light and fake, the kind I’d perfected for nights like this. “I think it’s time we return to the party. Before my father scolds me for running off.”

I didn’t wait for his response. My heels clicked as I started down the staircase, each step a battle to keep my legs steady. My heart pounded so hard it hurt, a relentless drum in my chest. My blood felt like fire, boiling, rushing through my veins with a rage I couldn’t contain. I wanted to scream. I wanted to break something. I wanted to wrap my hands around that man’s throat and watch the life drain from his eyes.

Because I’d seen him. The man who killed Camilla. My best friend. My sister in every way that mattered. He was here, in this glittering cage of lies, laughing, drinking, living. While she was gone. Cold. Six feet under. Her smile, her laugh, her warmth—stolen. And he was here, holding that woman’s hand, whispering in her ear, acting like he hadn’t ripped my world apart.

I reached the bottom of the stairs. The ballroom swallowed me again, its noise and heat pressing against my skin. My father stood a few feet away, still talking to the Russian don and some other man in a sharp suit. Their voices blended into the hum of the crowd, meaningless chatter, meaningless smiles. I stopped beside him, close enough to feel the weight of his presence, but my eyes didn’t stay on him. They couldn’t. They searched the room, hungry, desperate, until they found ‘him’ again.

There he was. Near the center of the ballroom, standing under a cascade of golden light. His gray suit fit him perfectly, tailored to his broad shoulders, his confident stance. He leaned toward the woman in the gold dress, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder, protective, possessive. She laughed at something he said, her head tilting back, her eyes sparkling. He smiled, a wide, easy smile, like he didn’t have blood on his hands. Like he hadn’t destroyed everything I loved.

My fingers curled into fists, nails biting into my palms. The pain was sharp, grounding, but it wasn’t enough to stop the storm inside me. Rage twisted in my chest, hot and jagged, like a blade I couldn’t pull out. He got to stand there, alive, breathing, while Camilla was nothing but a memory. A ghost. A name carved into stone. He got to touch that woman, laugh with her, live his life, while my best friend rotted in the ground.

I wanted to kill him. Right here. Right now. I wanted to cross the room, grab a knife from one of the waiters’ trays, and drive it into his chest. I wanted to watch his smug smile fade, watch his eyes go wide with fear, watch him realize what he’d done as he bled out on this perfect marble floor.

But I couldn’t. Not yet. Not with all these eyes watching. Not with my father’s voice in my head, telling me to behave, to play the part. Not with Alessandro standing behind me, his presence like a chain around my neck.

I forced my gaze away, my eyes darting to the side, to the flickering candles on a nearby table. My hands trembled, and I clasped them together to hide it. I couldn’t let anyone see. Not Alessandro. Not my father. Not the men who’d smile at me while plotting my death. No one could know what I’d seen, what I was feeling. Not until I was ready.

“Aria,” my father’s voice snapped me back. He was looking at me now, his eyes narrowing slightly, like he sensed something was off. “You’re pale. Are you feeling alright?”

I swallowed, forcing my face into that perfect, obedient mask. “I’m fine, Father. Just a little warm in here.”

He studied me for a moment, his gaze sharp, like he could see the lie in my eyes. But then he nodded, turning back to the man beside him. “Good. Stay close. We’re not done here.”

I nodded, my throat tight. Stay close. Behave. Smile. The same orders, over and over, chaining me to this life I hated. I glanced at Alessandro, standing just behind my father, his arms crossed, his face unreadable. He was watching me again, his eyes like ice.

I turned away, my gaze drifting back to the crowd, careful not to linger on ‘him’. The man in the gray suit. The man who’d taken everything from me. He was still there, oblivious, laughing, his hand now wrapped around the woman’s waist. My stomach twisted, a fresh wave of anger surging through me. How dare he? How dare he stand there, acting like he belonged, like he wasn’t a monster?

My mind flashed back to Camilla. Her laugh, bright and warm, like sunlight breaking through clouds. The way she’d grab my hand and drag me into some stupid adventure, her eyes sparkling with mischief. The way she’d hug me when I was falling apart, whispering that everything would be okay. She was one of the only real things in this world of lies, the only person who saw me, not the perfect daughter, not the mafia princess, just ‘me’.

And he took her. He stole her light, her life, her everything. And now he was here, living his, like it didn’t matter. Like she didn’t matter.

My chest ached, a sharp, tearing pain that made it hard to breathe. I wanted to scream. I wanted to run across the room and tear him apart with my bare hands. But I couldn’t. I had to be smart. I had to be patient. I had to play the part, just like my father wanted, just like this world demanded.

I took a slow breath, forcing my hands to unclench. The rage didn’t fade, but I pushed it down, deep, where no one could see it. I’d learned to do that long ago—hide the fire, bury the pain, wear the mask. It was the only way to survive in this world.

“Miss Moretti,” Alessandro’s voice was low, close, his breath brushing my ear. I flinched, not realizing he’d moved so near. “You’re not fine.”

I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t. “I said I’m fine,” I snapped, my voice sharper than I meant.

He didn’t respond, but I felt his presence, heavy, unyielding, like a storm waiting to break. He knew something was wrong. Damn him and his stupid, watchful eyes.

I turned slightly, meeting his gaze for a fraction of a second. His face was stone, as always, but his eyes—they burned, searching, like he could see the rage boiling inside me. I hated it.

“Stop staring at me,” I muttered, turning back to the crowd.

He didn’t answer, but I knew he didn’t look away.

My father’s voice broke through my thoughts again. “Aria, come meet Mr. Volkov.”

I blinked, dragging my eyes away from the man in the gray suit. My father was gesturing to the tall man beside him, the Russian don with sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes. I forced a smile, stepping forward, my movements automatic. “Of course.”

Mr. Volkov extended a hand, his smile polite but cold. “A pleasure, Miss Moretti.”

I took his hand, my grip firm, my smile perfect. “The pleasure’s mine.”

He held my hand a moment too long, his eyes lingering on me, assessing. I kept my expression neutral, but my skin crawled. Men like him were all the same—smiling while they calculated how to use you, how to break you. I pulled my hand back, smooth and controlled, and turned to my father.

“Mr. Volkov was just telling me about his new venture in Moscow,” my father said, his tone light but his eyes watchful. “Very promising.”

I nodded, pretending to care. “Sounds fascinating.”

It wasn’t. Nothing about this night was fascinating. It was suffocating.

My eyes went to the man again before I could stop myself.

I wanted to follow him. I wanted to confront him, to scream, to demand why. Why her? Why Camilla? Why did he get to live while she didn’t?

Her face flashed in my mind again—her smile, her laugh, her warmth. Gone. All of it, gone.

The rage burned hotter, brighter, until it was all I could feel. My hands shook, my heart pounded, my blood screamed for vengeance.

Soon.Very soon.

He’d join her. Six feet under.

And I’d be the one to put him there.