On Christmas Eve, Dad shoved a list into my hands: “Clean the house, prep dinner, wrap the gifts. Your brother’s guests expect everything perfect.” Mom laughed, “Don’t screw this up.” I smiled, said nothing, and booked a flight to Rome. Hours later, they walked into a dark, silent house—and then every phone started buzzing with my message. / Chapter 52 / 56

Chapter 52 - The Mask of the Serpent

Venice under the cover of night was a maze of black water, golden lantern light, and floating shadows.

A sleek, mahogany Riva motorboat glided silently through the misty waters of the Grand Canal, its twin engines muffled to a low, rhythmic purr. The wake churned like liquid obsidian behind them as the ancient, illuminated facades of gothic palazzos loomed out of the fog.

In the back of the boat, Claire adjusted the silk ribbon of her mask. It was a masterpiece of black filigree and silver leaf, shaped in the likeness of twin coiled serpents that shielded the upper half of her face while leaving her striking blue eyes completely visible. She wore a backless gown of midnight-blue velvet that flowed like water around her ankles, slit high enough to reveal a slim, lethal ceramic blade strapped securely to her left thigh.

Beside her sat Matteo, looking devastatingly sharp in a bespoke black tuxedo, a simple raven-feather half-mask concealing his features. His demeanor was completely composed, but Claire could feel the coiled lethality radiating from him. He was not just her security; he was her anchor.

"The server room is on the third floor of the palazzo, behind the private gallery," Matteo briefed her quietly, checking his encrypted earpiece. "Genevieve’s team has already disabled the perimeter cameras along the canal entrance. You have a seven-minute window while the auction begins to upload the override worm directly into the central terminal."

"And if Lorenzo recognizes me before then?" Claire asked, adjusting her diamond ear cuff—a micro-transceiver connected to Genevieve’s command post on Lake Como.

"Lorenzo hasn't seen you since you were an infant," Matteo replied, his hand gently resting over hers for a brief, reassuring second. "He expects an frightened orphan. Show him a predator."

The boat slowed, bumping gently against the striped wooden mooring poles outside the Palazzo Morosini. Torches flared in iron sconces along the grand marble water-gate, casting dancing orange reflections across the canal. Guests in elaborate baroque masks, dripping in emeralds and tailored silk, were stepping out of gondolas and private water-taxis, murmuring in French, Italian, and English.

Claire stepped off the boat, taking Matteo’s offered arm with sovereign grace.

They passed through the grand entrance, their forged gold-embossed invitations scanned by tuxedoed guards without a second glance. The interior of the palazzo was a breathtaking display of decadent wealth: towering Murano glass chandeliers, ceiling frescoes painted by Titian and Tintoretto, and champagne flowing from silver fountains.

Claire scanned the crowded ballroom. At the far end of the hall, standing beneath a massive gilded archway, was Lorenzo Castiglione. He was an imposing man in his late sixties, with iron-gray hair, a predatory posture, and eyes as cold and dead as winter ice.

And standing right beside him, holding a flute of champagne with nervous, sweating hands, was a face Claire never expected to see again.