Page 14 of Captured By the Masked BRATVA
The elevator ride down is silent. The hotel corridors are already pulsing with life, the scent of perfume and champagne spilling into the air. Somewhere below, the music has started again, lower, heavier, the tempo darker.
When the ballroom doors open, a hush ripples through the crowd. Masks turn toward us, curious, assessing. The moment stretches. Then Artem’s hand slides over mine, anchoring me, steady as a vow.
We cross the threshold together.
The light is differet tonight, the chandeliers dimmed low and theres a red haze. The air hums with tension, laughter edged with something hungry. I can feel eyes following us, whispers rising and falling. But for once, I don’t shrink from them.
Because whatever this is; madness, fate, or some terrible kind of healing, I’m not walking into the second night alone.
Artem
The second night of the masquerade has always been the real one. The first is for appearances. It’s about couture, champagne, and the illusion of civility. The second is where masks stop being costumes and become currency.
The ballroom looks different tonight. The chandeliers burn lower, washing everything in honeyed light that hides more than it reveals. The stage that was used for music last night has been stripped bare and moved to the center of the room. In its place stands a narrow platform with a single iron railing, polished until it gleams like a weapon. Around it, the crowd gathers, men in darker suits, women in dresses that glint like blades.
The air smells of wine and money and something colder underneath, the quiet scent of fear that always clings to nights like this.
Elena stands beside me, quiet, her mask catching the light as she takes it all in. I feel her hand tremble slightly in mine, and I tighten my grip.
At the edge of the room, I spot a familiar figure, tall, broad-shouldered, his mask matte black with a slash of gold across the eyes. My cousin, Liam Orlov.
We haven’t spoken in years, not since his faction moved into shipping and he started playing his games across the Baltic. I know his reputation: quiet, methodical, dangerously patient. Aman who never attends a gathering unless there’s something to win.
He catches my gaze and raises a glass in greeting before cutting through the crowd to join me.
“Cousin,” he says, his tone halfway between respect and amusement. “Didn’t think I’d see you here this year.”
I glance toward the stage. “Things change.”
His eyes flick to Elena, taking in the way she stands close, the sheen of satin against her skin. He’s too smart to ask questions outright, but the hint of a smile beneath his mask says enough. “Interesting company.”
“She’s with me,” I say simply.
“Evidently.” He sips his drink. “I’m here for the auction.”
Of course he is. The second night of the masquerade always starts with a sale, not of art or jewels, but ofallegiances.Favors, information, debts packaged neatly into contracts written in invisible ink. Whoever controls the bidding controls the balance of the city until the next year’s masquerade.
I nod toward the platform. “What’s being offered tonight?”
“There are several interesting lots,” he says. “A banker’s loyalty, a politician’s silence, and a few assets that can’t be named aloud.” His tone lowers. “I hear one of them is a shipment route through the northern border. Clean. No customs, no oversight. Worth killing for.”
I study him for a beat. “And you’re planning to buy it.”
He smiles faintly. “If I can outbid the wolves.”
That’s Liam. Calm, calculated, and the kind of man who’ll one day bring a city to its knees just to see what sound it makes.
The music shifts; the crowd’s murmur deepens. On the platform, a masked auctioneer takes the stage, his voice smoothas silk and twice as insidious. The bidding begins, numbers disguised as metaphors, currencies whispered in languages meant to confuse.
Elena’s hand tightens in mine. I glance down; she’s watching everything, eyes wide, mouth set in a thin line. The innocence of her shock cuts through the noise around us.
“This is what your father trades in,” I murmur, low enough for her alone. “This is what all of them do when the lights go low, and it only gets worse later.”
She looks up at me, and for a moment I see something fierce behind the fear. “And you?”
I hold her gaze. “I’ve done worse.”
She doesn’t look away. She just nods, as if she already knew the answer.
