Chapter 2 - The Mask and the Pumpkin
By seven o’clock on Halloween night, Villa Rosalia was no longer a home; it was a gothic cathedral of wealth, secrets, and theatrical dread.
A low mist, artificially generated and scented with cloves and bitter orange, drifted across the terrace overlooking Lake Michigan. Two hundred carved jack-o'-lanterns, each bearing intricate filigree patterns rather than grotesque faces, lined the grand stone staircase leading down from the bluff. Inside the ballroom, Sienna’s vision had come to life with terrifying elegance.
Black velvet draperies pooled on the parquet floor, swallowing the harsh autumn drafts. Golden chandeliers, dimmed to a warm candle-like hum, cast flickering shadows across the frescoed ceilings. Waiters in Venetian plague doctor masks glided through the crowd with silver trays carrying vintage Dom Pérignon and crystal tumblers of amber bourbon.
Sienna stood behind the velvet curtain of the west service alcove, wearing an earpiece that buzzed with Enzo’s low grunts and the kitchen staff’s frantic updates.
“West gate is backed up with limousines,” Enzo’s voice crackled in her ear. “Senator Murphy’s driver is arguing about the metal detector. What do you want me to do, boss?”
“Tell the Senator that if he doesn't want his driver screened, he can walk the quarter-mile driveway in the rain,” Sienna whispered back into the mic. “Safety protocols apply to everyone. Even people who write legislation.”
A pause. Then Enzo’s gravelly chuckle. “Copy that. I like you, Blake. You have brass ones.”
Sienna adjusted the mask resting against her face. She had spent three hours getting ready in the small guest suite on the second floor, feeling like an imposter the entire time. The dress she wore was not from an outlet mall.
At four o’clock that afternoon, a courier had arrived with a garment bag bearing the seal of a private atelier on Oak Street. Inside was an emerald green velvet gown with an off-the-shoulder neckline, long sleeves that tapered at the wrists, and a structured bodice that cinched her waist while celebrating every curve she had spent years trying to conceal. With it came a note written in heavy black ink:
*Take up all the room you want tonight. — R.*
Now, looking through the slit in the curtain at the swirling sea of silk, diamonds, and feathered masks, Sienna felt a strange, intoxicating power. For the first time in her life, she wasn't hiding behind the production tables. She belonged in the room.
“Miss Blake.”
She turned. Adrien stood behind her, wearing an impeccably tailored black tuxedo and a silver harlequin mask that concealed the upper half of his face. His signet ring caught the dim light of the corridor. In his hands, he held a clipboard and a small velvet pouch.
“Everything is running like clockwork,” Adrien said, though his tone was unusually tight. His eyes flickered nervously toward the ballroom floor. “The bidding for the silent auction has already surpassed two million dollars.”
“And the Lantern of Santa Rosalia?” Sienna asked, checking her watch. It was 8:45 PM. “The live auction is scheduled for 11:30, right before the midnight unmasking.”
“The pedestal security is active,” Adrien said. “Enzo has two men stationed within six feet of the glass at all times. It is completely secure.” He paused, looking at her dress with a strange, lingering intensity. “You look... magnificent, Sienna. Green suits you. Though I wonder if you realize what kind of fire you are playing with.”
Sienna raised an eyebrow behind her mask of gilded filigree. “I’m doing my job, Adrien.”
“Roman Duca does not buy dresses for event planners,” Adrien said softly, stepping closer. The clove-scented mist drifted between them from the ballroom. “He is a predator, my dear. He collects beautiful, fragile things, puts them on pedestals, and when they fail to survive his world, he buys a new piece for his gallery. Don't mistake his protection for affection.”
Before Sienna could retort, Adrien turned and melted into the crowd, leaving her with an unsettling chill running down her spine. There was something in his posture tonight—a brittle, twitching energy that didn't match his usual ice-cold composure.
“Sienna.”
The voice came from directly behind her.
She turned to see Roman stepping out from the private study door.
If she had thought he looked dangerous in a suit, tonight he looked like an emperor who had stepped out of an ancient painting to reclaim a lost kingdom. He wore a bespoke black tuxedo with satin lapels, a crisp white shirt with obsidian studs, and a half-mask of hammered black iron that covered only his right cheek and temple, leaving his piercing gray eyes and scarred eyebrow completely exposed.
His gaze locked onto her, sweeping down the emerald velvet, lingering on the exposed expanse of her collarbones, before rising slowly back to her face.
Roman let out a slow, deliberate breath. “Whoever designed that dress deserves half my portfolio.”
Sienna felt the heat bloom across her skin, but she met his gaze with a defiant smirk. “I was told to take up room, Mr. Duca. I’m just following the client’s explicit instructions.”
Roman stepped closer, closing the distance until she could feel the heat radiating from his chest. “Call me Roman. I believe we passed the point of titles when I threatened to put your former fiancé into Lake Michigan.”
“Speaking of Grant,” Sienna said, leaning her head back slightly to look into his eyes, “he’s here.”
Roman’s eyes narrowed instantly, the air around them dropping ten degrees. “Where?”
“By the champagne fountain. With Clarissa Van Der Bilt.” Sienna held up a small, hand-painted wooden box shaped like a miniature pumpkin. It had brass hinges and a delicate latch. “He sent this to the service station twenty minutes ago via one of the waitstaff. A little joke. Inside was a note asking me if I remembered where I belonged.”
Roman reached out, his jaw rigid, and moved to take the box. “Enzo will throw him down the bluff.”
“No,” Sienna said firmly, pulling the box back against her chest. “No violence. Not tonight. Tonight is about St. Brendan’s. And besides, I told you I have stronger locks now.”
She looked at him, her eyes dancing with an audacity that made Roman’s breath hitch.
“Four hours until midnight, Roman,” she said softly, her voice low and challenging. “You’ve spent fifty-three years being the most terrifying man in Illinois. Everyone in this room bows their heads when you walk past. They are terrified of you.”
“And you aren't?” Roman murmured, his fingers gently brushing the side of her velvet-clad waist.
“I think you’re an old man who uses fear because you’re too proud to admit you get lonely in this giant mausoleum,” she whispered boldly.
Roman went completely still.
In the history of Roman Duca’s life, no one—not syndicate bosses, not federal prosecutors, not governors—had ever looked him in the eye and called him an old man.
A dangerous, electric spark flared in his gray eyes. He didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned down until his lips were a millimeter from the shell of her ear, his breath hot against her skin.
“An old man,” he growled, the vibration running straight down her spine. “Be careful, Miss Blake. Games have consequences. What are the rules of this one?”
Sienna held up the tiny pumpkin box between their chests.
“The auction starts at 11:30,” she said, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs. “If the Lantern of Santa Rosalia sells for less than five million dollars, I will work your next five galas for free, and you can call me whatever you like. But if it sells for more than five million... you have to take this mask off in front of the entire room, walk across the dance floor, and ask me to dance. No business. No threats. Just you and me.”
Roman stared at her through the iron mask. His pulse was visible at the base of his throat, throbbing with a dark, hungry rhythm.
“Five million,” Roman said, his voice dropping into a register of sheer silk and iron. “Make it six, little bird. And when I win, you don't just work for free. You have breakfast with me in my private dining room every morning for a month.”
“Deal,” she breathed.
Roman reached out, took the small pumpkin box from her hand, and placed it inside the inner pocket of his tuxedo, right over his heart.
“Go manage your party, Sienna,” he whispered, his eyes blazing. “And prepare to lose.”
***
At 10:15 PM, the atmosphere in the ballroom reached a fever pitch.
The string quartet had been replaced by a jazz ensemble flown in from New Orleans, their brass instruments filling the vaulted room with sultry, syncopated rhythms. Laughter echoed off the limestone arches. Wine flowed like water.
Sienna stood near the central alcove, double-checking the security perimeter. The Lantern of Santa Rosalia sat beneath its fiber-optic spotlight, glowing like a relic from heaven. The blue enamel sparkled with deep sapphire tones, the silver filigree catching every angle of light, and the miniature figure of Saint Rosalia gazed out over the masked aristocrats with solemn grace.
Enzo stood four paces away, his massive arms folded across his chest, his eyes scanning the crowd with mechanical precision.
“Everything quiet, Enzo?” Sienna asked, walking up to him.
“Too quiet,” Enzo grunted, shifting his weight. “I don't like masquerades. Half these people are wearing full-face masks. Anyone could slip a weapon past the line if they had an inside man.”
“Did security sweep the staff?”
“Adrien handled the catering background checks,” Enzo said, scratching his scarred chin. “Said he vetted them through his private firm in London. But I saw three guys near the service dock who didn't look like waiters. Walked like soldiers. Flat-footed, eyes on the exits.”
Sienna’s stomach tightened. She remembered Adrien’s brittle demeanor earlier in the evening, his strange warning about Roman collecting fragile things.
“Where is Adrien now?” she asked.
“Downstairs in the electrical annex,” Enzo said, frowning. “Said the backup generator was throwing an error code on the control panel. He went to check it himself.”
A cold prickle of alarm danced across Sienna’s skin.
*Why would the executive director check a backup generator himself? Villa Rosalia had a full-time facilities staff.*
“Enzo, stay right here by the lantern,” Sienna said, her pulse quickening. “Do not leave this pedestal under any circumstances.”
“Where are you going?”
“To find Roman.”
She turned and began threading through the crowded ballroom, her emerald skirt sweeping past silk dresses and tailored tuxedos. She scanned the room, looking for the broad shoulders and the hammered iron mask.
Near the champagne tower, a hand reached out and grabbed her wrist.
She spun, ready to pull away, only to find Grant Holloway smiling down at her, his eyes glassy with champagne and venom.
“Leaving so soon, Sienna?” Grant slurred slightly, pulling her closer. Clarissa was nowhere to be seen. “You look ridiculous in that dress. Who are you trying to kid? You think Duca looks at you and sees anything other than a charity project? He’s playing you, sweetheart. Just like I did.”
Sienna didn't flinch. She looked down at his hand on her wrist, then up into his handsome, hollow face.
“Let go of me, Grant,” she said, her voice freezing the air between them.
“Or what? You’ll call your mobster boyfriend?” Grant sneered, tightening his grip. “Let me tell you a secret, Sienna. Duca’s empire is crumbling. Adrien told me yesterday—Duca is being investigated by the Department of Justice. By tomorrow morning, this whole house will be sealed by federal marshals. You hitched your wagon to a sinking ship.”
The words hit her like a thunderclap.
*Adrien told him.*
*Adrien had been meeting with Grant Holloway.*
Sienna twisted her wrist with a sharp, violent motion Salvatore had taught her years ago, breaking Grant’s grip and sending his champagne flute crashing to the floor, shattering into a hundred glittering shards.
“Get out of my way,” she spat.
She didn't wait for his response. She broke through the crowd, heading toward the grand corridor that led to the service basement and the master study. Her heart was pounding violently against her ribs.
The clock above the grand staircase read 11:42 PM.
She turned into the shadowed corridor leading to the electrical annex. The noise of the jazz band faded behind the heavy oak double doors, replaced by the low, subterranean hum of the mansion’s industrial climate control systems.
“Roman!” she called softly, quickening her pace. “Roman, where are you?”
No answer.
Only the cold draft blowing from the basement stairs.
She reached the top of the stone stairs leading down to the generator room. A single emergency bulb flickered overhead, casting long, grotesque shadows against the stone walls.
At the bottom of the stairs, a figure stepped out from the darkness.
It was Adrien.
He had removed his harlequin mask. In the harsh fluorescent light, his handsome face was pale, his eyes wide and completely devoid of their usual polished charm. In his right hand, he held a heavy black radio.
“Adrien?” Sienna whispered, taking a step back up the stairs. “What are you doing down here?”
Adrien looked up at her, a sad, terrifyingly calm smile spreading across his lips.
“I told you, Miss Blake,” Adrien murmured, his British accent sounding hollow in the concrete stairwell. “Honesty is a dreadful business model. And you... you really should have stayed invisible.”
He reached out and flipped the master breaker on the industrial panel beside him.
May you like
At exactly 11:47 PM, every light in Villa Rosalia went out.
---
