Chapter 131: Familiarity

The heavy oak doors of the castle swung open, and the noise hit them all at once.

It wasn’t the chaotic, shouting roar of the street festival they had left earlier that afternoon.

This was the clinking of crystal glasses, the gentle scrape of silver forks on porcelain, the soft, rich sweeping of live violins, and a hundred low voices blending together in Italian, French, and English.

The air inside the grand ballroom was warm, thick with the scent of expensive perfume, aged wine, roasted meats, and burning beeswax from the massive chandeliers hanging high above.

Isabella walked beside Aaron, her hand tucked securely into the crook of his elbow. Her high heels clicked against the polished marble floor. She could feel the vastness of the room just by the way her footsteps echoed upward into the tall ceilings.

She was wearing her dark lace mask, but Aaron hadn’t bothered to put his on. He held it casually in his free hand, completely unconcerned with hiding his face.

The moment they stepped across the threshold, a sudden shift rippled through the room.

The conversations didn’t stop, these were people far too powerful and far too trained to gawk like children but the collective tone of the ballroom dropped.

The soft rustle of expensive fabrics shifted as people turned toward them.

Aaron didn’t make a big scene. He didn’t wave or stop to smile. He walked with a slow, heavy confidence, his shoulder brushing against Isabella’s, his large hand coming up to rest briefly over her fingers where they held his arm.

It was a silent, massive declaration. He was holding her like she belonged right beside him, shielding her from the crowded room while simultaneously showing her off to every pair of eyes watching from behind silver and gold masks.

Whispers started instantly, rising like a wave of dry leaves behind them.

"Is that Kazarov?" a woman’s sharp, soft voice muttered in quiet French a few feet away.

"Who is the woman?" a man replied in thick, accented English. "Look at the hair. The dress."

"Wait... is that the Kingston girl? Lance Kingston’s daughter?"

"The one from the New York papers? The divorce?"

"The little miss is really his lover?"

Isabella heard every single word. Her grip on Aaron’s arm tightened slightly, her fingers digging into the dark wool of his suit jacket. Her heart kicked against her ribs, a quiet flash of heat rising into her cheeks.

She knew how people looked at her. She knew the stories that had been written about her over the last six weeks, the helpless, tragic heiress who had lost her marriage and her child all in one brutal month.

Aaron felt her fingers tighten on his arm. Without breaking his stride, he leaned his head down, his lips brushing the side of her dark bob.

"Let them talk," he murmured, his voice low and steady against her skin. "They’re bored. And you look better than anyone in this room."

Isabella swallowed hard, stepping closer into his side. She hated that his voice worked so fast, smoothing out the sharp edge of her anxiety before it could root itself in her chest.

They didn’t stay in the main ballroom long. Aaron guided her smoothly around small groups of wealthy guests who tried to step into his path to offer polite nods and quick greetings.

He acknowledged them with brief, cold tilts of his head, never stopping his walk until they moved past a set of heavy velvet drapes into a smaller, private reception area.

Here, the noise dropped significantly. The room was quieter, cooler, filled with deep leather armchairs, low tables, and the faint scent of woodsmoke from a fireplace.

This was where the real power sat.

There were maybe thirty people in this room, international financiers, older European figures in impeccably tailored suits, and a few women covered in priceless emeralds and diamonds.

Aaron led her toward a wide leather sofa near the marble fireplace. "Sit," he said quietly, placing his hand on her waist to guide her down.

Isabella sat back, smoothing the front of her emerald dress over her knees. She tilted her head toward him as he took the seat right beside her, his long legs stretching out, one arm coming up to rest along the back of the sofa right behind her shoulders.

His presence was everywhere, warm and heavy, wrapping around her like a blanket.

"So," Isabella whispered, leaning toward his shoulder. "Are these the very important, very rich people you were talking about?"

Aaron let out a quiet, dry chuckle. "A few of them."

"They smell like money alright," she murmured, a tiny, teasing smirk appearing on her lips. "And I think the man standing near the door is using enough cologne to drown a horse."

Aaron glanced over at a middle-aged French shipping magnate standing five feet away. The corners of Aaron’s mouth twitched upward. "Careful. He’s worth four billion."

"Four billion dollars and he can’t buy better cologne?" she shot back softly, keeping her voice low so only he could hear. "What a tragedy."

Aaron’s chest rumbled with a quiet laugh. He reached out, his fingers lightly pinching her chin, turning her face toward his. "You’re wicked today."

"I’m bored," she corrected him, though her heart did a little flutter at the warm touch of his hand. "You brought me to a secret party and barely tell me anything."

Before Aaron could answer, the heavy double doors at the far end of the private room swung open.

The conversation in the room died down completely.

An old man stepped into the room. He walked with a heavy carved wooden cane, his shoes tapping against the stone floor.

Don Vito Moretti.

He didn’t sound like a crime boss. He sounded like somebody’s grandfather. And the main reason for that was the small mob of people surrounding him as he walked.

He was completely swarmed by women.

Three of his adult daughters walked beside him, talking loudly in expressive Italian, arguing gently about his medicine and his coat.

Behind them were two sons-in-law carrying small gift boxes, and trailing right at his heels were three young girls, his granddaughters, laughing, gossiping, and bright in silk dresses that rustled loudly as they moved.

The entire dangerous patriarch aura was completely swallowed up by a cloud of chatter, perfume, and family noise.

Isabella listened, her eyebrows shooting up behind her mask. "Is that him?" she asked quietly.

"That’s him," Aaron said.

Normally, guests would queue up to greet a man like Don Moretti on his birthday.

But the old man didn’t stop at the head of the room.

He walked right past three waiting diplomats, his cane tapping steadily, heading straight for the sofa where Aaron and Isabella were sitting.

Aaron stood up smoothly, buttoning his jacket.

"Vito," Aaron said, his voice deep and respectful.

The old Don stopped. "Aaron. You finally made it. I thought you were going to stay in Moscow and send me another boring bottle of vodka."

"I brought the vodka anyway," Aaron replied, a rare, genuine spark of warmth in his voice as he shook the old man’s hand. "Happy birthday, old man."

The Don chuckled, a dry, raspy sound, before his voice shifted toward the sofa where Isabella sat.

Isabella started to lean forward, opening her mouth to introduce herself polite and proper, but before she could utter a single word, the Don spoke up first.

"Isabella," the old man said softly, his English smooth despite his thick Italian accent.

Isabella paused, her breath catching slightly in her throat. She tilted her face up toward the sound of his voice. "Sir?"

"Look at you," Don Moretti murmured, taking a slow step closer. He leaned slightly on his cane, his voice softening with a deep, nostalgic weight. "You have your mother’s sweet chin, but those dark eyebrows... that is all Lance. Exactly like your father."

Isabella felt a sudden, unexpected sting behind her eyes. Her fingers tightened in her lap. "You... you knew my father?"

"Knew him?" The old Don let out a loud, hearty laugh, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

"I spent twenty years trying to get that stubborn American to drink proper espresso! He was a terrifying businessman, Isabella. Stubborn as a mule. He walked into my villa in Sicily thirty years ago, demanded a shipping contract, and refused to leave until I signed it. I thought about throwing him in the bay."

Isabella let out a soft, genuine laugh, the tension leaving her shoulders all at once. "That sounds like him."

"He talked about you constantly," the Don added, his voice softening. "Every time he came to Europe, he brought pictures. ’Look at my little girl, Vito. Look how smart she is.’ He was very proud of you, little one."

Isabella swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat, a soft, bitter-sweet smile touching her lips.

She had spent so long thinking of her father’s work as a cold, distant world that had taken him away from her.

Hearing this legendary, powerful old man talk about Lance Kingston like an old, stubborn friend hit her deeply.

She had truly missed him.

She turned her face slightly toward Aaron. He was standing right beside the old Don, his heavy presence familiar and quiet.