Page 78 of Taken By Sin
Bria places a gentle hand on my arm, her smile conspiratorial. “This is your moment,” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the music. “Go first. Trust me.”
I hesitate, glancing at her, but she gives me a tiny nudge. “You’ve got this, Magnolia. Own it.”
Drawing in a steadying breath, I nod and step forward, my heels clicking softly against the marble. The emerald fabric of my gown whispers with every movement, cascading like liquid silk down the stairs.
I keep my chin high, my hand gliding lightly along the banister, but my heart pounds wildly in my chest. I can feel the shift in the air as I descend. Conversations pause, heads turn, and for a moment, it feels like the entire room is holding its breath.
And then I see him.
Sin stands near the base of the staircase, his figure commanding even in the midst of the glittering crowd.
He’s dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, his mask a sleek, understated piece that only enhances the sharpness of his features. His posture is relaxed, but the intensity in his ghost eyes as they find mine steals the breath from my lungs.
For a moment, it feels as though the crowd dissolves, leaving just the two of us. His gaze doesn’t waver, following every step I take as though I’ve somehow caught and held his entire world in my hands.
I reach the last step, my hand still lightly brushing the banister. Sin steps forward, his presence enveloping me as he extends a hand. His fingers curl gently around mine, warm and steady, grounding me in the whirlwind of the moment.
“Magnolia,” he says, his voice low and smooth, laced with something I can’t quite name. “You’re… breathtaking.”
Heat rises to my cheeks, and I glance away for a moment, suddenly shy under the weight of his gaze. “Thank you,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
Bria descends the staircase behind me, her golden gown shimmering as she sweeps into the crowd, giving us space. But I barely notice her—barely notice anyone—because Sin’s hand is still holding mine, and his eyes haven’t left my face.
He steps closer, his voice dropping so that only I can hear. “Every star in the sky could disappear tonight, and no one would notice. Not with you here.”
The intensity of his words makes my heart stutter, and I meet his gaze, unable to look away. In this moment, beneath the glow of chandeliers and the swirl of the masquerade, it feels like we’re the only ones who matter.
Sin’s hand tightens around mine for just a moment, his dark eyes searching my face like he wants to say more. But before he can, a man in a crisp suit leans in, murmuring something in his ear. Sin’s jaw tightens, his gaze flicking toward the ballroom before returning to me.
“I’ll be back,” he says, his voice low and full of promise.
His thumb brushes against my knuckles before he releases my hand and strides toward the man, his presence commanding even as he melts into the crowd.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. The air suddenly feels lighter without Sin’s intensity tethering me, but the absence of his warmth leaves a strange hollowness.
Bria appears at my side, a flute of champagne in one hand and an amused grin on her face. “He hates being interrupted, especially when it comes to you,” she teases, nudging me gently.
I smile, still feeling the lingering effects of his gaze. “He’s… intense.”
“That’s an understatement,” Bria replies with a laugh. “But don’t worry, you’ve got me. Let me give you the rundown on who’s who in this circus.”
She gestures subtly toward a tall man in a dark green suit near the far corner of the room. His mask is black and gold, his demeanor exuding quiet authority as he speaks to a small group of elegantly dressed guests.
“That’s Lucian De Luca. Runs one of the biggest art smuggling rings on the East Coast. If you ever want a Monet that’snot exactlylegit, he’s your guy.”
I blink, startled. “You’re joking.”
Bria smirks. “Not even a little. Don’t let the smooth talk fool you—he’s ruthless.”
Her gaze shifts to a striking woman in a crimson gown standing by the orchestra, her mask adorned with intricate lace and pearls.
“And that’s Contessa Moretti. She controls the import business in the harbor. Everything that comes through, legal or not, goes through her. If she doesn’t like you, good luck getting so much as a crate of oranges past customs.”
“Seriously?” I ask, marveling at the casual way Bria describes these people.
“Seriously,” she replies, sipping her champagne. “Oh, and over there—” She tilts her head toward a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a navy suit, his mask simple but refined. “That’s Victor Vosci. He’s old-school mafia, handles all the high-stakes gambling in Atlantic City. He and my father go way back, but don’t let that fool you. He’d stab anyone in the back if it meant doubling his profits.”
I glance at him, noticing the way his eyes dart around the room, always calculating.