Unmasked Desires

The envelope did not belong in Emilia Rossi’s office.

It sat on the polished corner of her desk like an intruder, out of place amid the neat stacks of contracts, binders marked in crisp black labels, and the laptop she kept precisely centered.

The envelope itself was cream-colored and had a weight to it that was substantial. The sealing wax, a deep red, was stamped with some sort of crest, one that was intricate and unfamiliar to me. Her first name was written across the front of it, in black block letters, her first name alone.

Not Ms. Rossi. Not Attorney Rossi. Simply Emilia.

Her breath stuck in her throat. She had not heard her own name said in so long, in a voice stripped of title, of prerogative. It was too close, too intimate.

She took it tentatively, half-expecting a joke. The paper was rough, rough beneath her fingers. She pried open the seal with a fingernail, and the wax cracked open with a small noise that in her vacant office sounded louder than it had been.

The interior of the card was black as velvet, its message embossed in gold:

You are cordially invited to the Winter Masquerade.

Midnight. Palazzo di Rossi.

Black tie. Masks required.

Her heart missed a beat.

She flipped the card over. Blank. No RSVP, no message, no signature.

The Palazzo di Rossi.

Emilia was more used to the name than anyone in town. A Renaissance castle above the old town, fresco ceilings and marble arches. They breathed it under their breath in wonder, as though somewhere else. She'd been once, years ago, to a benefit her company gave. The evening had been oppressively warm, gold chandeliers dripping liquid light, waiters in white gloves, talk as delicate as crystal glasses.

But that had not been a summons to a benefit ball. That had been for the Masquerade.

Her heart quickened.

The Masquerade was myth. So some claimed, a rumor perpetuated by those who were so drama-deprived. Others claimed it was very real, and deadly. A party spoken of in hushed tones over cocktails consumed after midnight, a ball of influence shrouded in secrecy and decadence. The sort of thing never photographed, never published, but never forgotten.

Emilia's analytical mind laughed. She was not the kind of woman who had room to accommodate gossip. She earned her living on facts, not hearsay. And yet…

Her fingers lingered on the card for a fraction less than a heartbeat.

---

She dreamed about masks that night.

Gold and velvet, feathered and bedecked. Eyes looking at them over at her, wise and hungry. She woke tangled in her sheets around her legs, her skin damp, her heart pounding with a hunger she couldn't define.

She'd argued a hundred times by dusk against going. It was a trap. A joke. She hadn't been invited, not really. She'd be a fool.

---

And still, at midnight, she stood in a black silk dress, before her mirror.

The dress hugged her, as if it had waited all this time for her form. It was low at the back, the fabric brushing against her exposed skin and causing her to shiver. The neckline dipped lower than she would ever dare wear to a business function.

Her lace mask was mediocre but edged with rims of rough texture. She jammed it onto her face and leaned into the glass.

The woman who stared back was not Emilia Rossi, suspicious attorney, obedient daughter, careful friend. This woman's eyes blazed. This woman was one who could keep secrets. Maybe even shatter them.

"Who are you?" Emilia whispered. The glass was silent.

---

The Palazzo shone like a beacon in winter gloom.

Marble columns loomed over steps, crowned with gold lanterns. Taxis and sleek black cars disgorged guests, one more dazzling than the last, clad in silks and velvets, masked in feathers and jewels.

Emilia emerged from her taxi, her heels clanging on marble. Cold nipped at her shoulders, but excitement kept her warm.

No one barred her path. Door guards inclined their heads as if waiting for her all along.

Inside, the world opened in sound and gold.

The ballroom opened its maw to swallow her whole. A vaulted ceiling loomed overhead, painted angels who seemed to gaze down at partiers below. Crystal chandeliers cascaded light down marble floors polished to mirrors.

Music throbbed, violins wailed and insistent, drums pounding rough, a beat infused into her bones. Scent was thick in the air, candlewax, champagne, perfume, and something underlying.

And masks, everywhere.

Some gemstone-encrusted, some pulled up into feathers, others carved into grotesque, animalistic shapes. All of the guests become more than human, or less.

Emilia stood on the curb clutching her small bag too tightly. She'd never felt more naked. Or more exposed.

She thought about going back. The thought was almost a solace. She could still go back, call another cab, make this never have happened. She could place the black card in a drawer and pile bills and briefs on top of it until it was old news in her life.

And then—

She sensed it.

A gaze.

It reached her like warmth, brushing her skin as if she'd been touched.

She lifted her eyes slowly.

He was halfway across the ballroom, half in shadow, half in the light of a chandelier.

Tall. Still. Not moving.

His mask was midnight blue, trimmed with silver, velvet. No feathers, no jewels, no sparkle. How restrained it made him look great. It dignified him, set him apart from the throng like a sword.

He was not smiling. He was not talking. He was looking at her.

Her lips parted on a gasp she could not remember. The room distorted, the music condensed to a slash that beat in her skull like a pulse. The dancers whirled, faceless, insignificant. He alone was clear.

She should have moved back. She did not.

He moved closer to her.

Not hurried. Not flustered. His stride confident, self-assured, the others parting to let him through. Each step deliberate, as though the space between them was one he alone had the right to bridge.

Her heart pounding with every step.

And then, he stood before her.

Closer than she expected. Taller. His face obscured by a mask, yet she could sense its intensity, uncompromising, stripping her bare.

He offered a gloved hand.

"Dance with me."

His voice was low, rich, and velvet-soft. There was an accent underlying it, one she couldn't place.

Emilia's head reeled. She should say no. She didn't belong here. This was insanity.

But her hand was already moving.

Already reaching into his.

The leather was warm, warmth spreading into the gap between their palms.

The orchestra swelled.

And Emilia was drawn into his world.

The music also closed in around them at the same moment, as though it had been waiting for them.

He tossed her into the whirlwind of dancers, pulling her into the rhythm with assured ease. His gloved hand came down on her back, her silk dress crunching against leather glove. His other hand closed over hers, fingers wrapping around hers in a strong but not unkind hold.

She'd danced before. For weddings. For awkward, stumbling fund-raisers where partners drifted in neat squares. But this. This wasn't.

He didn't just move her. He led her, and it didn't feel as if he was manipulating her. It felt like slipping into a rhythm she hadn't known she'd always remembered.

Her hips swiveled, turned, dipped, lifted by the music and by him. His steps were slow, deliberate, the pressure he put against her just hard enough that she was panting with each step. She fought not to gaze at him, to swallow the sparkling crowd, but her eyes kept returning to his mask, to the sharp angle of his jaw, to the strain that seemed to radiate from eyes she couldn't even see.

“You dance well,” he murmured. His voice cut through the orchestra like a ribbon through silk, low and smooth.

“I’m only following,” she answered before she could stop herself.

His lips curved beneath the mask. Not a smile, something more dangerous, like satisfaction. “Exactly.”

Her pulse leapt.

The music hit its crescendo, the strings soaring. He spun her, his hand at her waist drawing her into him. The touch was too prolonged, his thumb skating the bare skin of her back where the dress dipped indecently low.

Fire washed over her.

She should have left. Should have excused herself. But closeness strangled all sense. His scent, subdued, expensive, smoke over sandalwood, something, wound around her until she turned.

Her feet on marble as he took her out onto the floor. The crowd parted, though she wasn't sure if it was the dance steps or something else, something about him. The way people would glance, then glance away, as if they'd gazed into flame.

Emilia swallowed and tried to steady her breathing.

"You don't belong here."

The words escaped before she realized she'd spoken them.

His fingers clutched her buttock, not painful, but firm, biting into her there. "Don't I?"

Her throat closed. "I meant… I don't."

A pause. His head shifted slightly to one side, looking at her as though she'd said something she hadn't meant. "And yet"

Her breath coming too fast, her lungs aflame. She didn't answer. Couldn't.

The music slowed, violins stretching notes into sensual, languid. He pulled her nearer, bodies more embrace, chest to chest, thigh to thigh.

The marble floor appeared to undulate beneath the feet, a thousand shifting colors of silk and feathers. But Emilia's eyes narrowed, focusing on the man who held her.

Her breath stuttered when his mouth dipped close. Not touching, but near enough that she could feel the warmth of him at her ear.

“You wear the mask well,” he murmured.

Her voice betrayed her. “Do I?”

His lips curved against the space just above her cheek, close enough to graze but never touching. “Almost too well. One might think you’ve been here before.”

Her heart pounded. “I haven’t.”

He didn't respond. But it wasn't a barren silence, it was heavy, calculated. He suspended the words between them, drawing her deeper into the area where the music and the lights ran out, where there was only the pressure of his hand on her back and the pulse of her own naked heartbeat.

The music swelled, and he spun her around the corner so suddenly she caught her breath, his arm around her, holding her tight as though he never intended to let her go. Masks collided. She felt the momentary touch of velvet against lace, the intermingling of his breath with hers.

And then, the music stopped.

They did not stir for a moment. The silence was sharp, broken only by the muted rustle of skirts against skirts and courteous applause from those watching.

He had not released her yet.

She looked up into the blackness of his mask, trying to see beyond it, to catch a glimpse of a spark of the eyes beneath. She had to know.

But he moved away first.

His hand fell from her waist another moment, then released. He bent slightly forward, a movement not of flirting, but of courtesy, as though he were pleading for an understanding she didn't possess.

"Until later, Emilia."

His utterance of her name was weighted with the heaviness of understanding, of knowing.

Her stomach roiled. She had never given him her name.

And before she could even question him how he knew, he was out of her sight. He blended into the din of jeweled masks and silk dresses, and there, he was lost as though devoured by the crowd.

Emilia did not stir, her skin burning from the brief touch of his, her hand unmoving and trembling at her side.

The applause subsided. The music went on. The dancers went on.

But she couldn't.

Because at that point, with her heart pounding and her mouth still open in shock, Emilia Rossi knew two things with absolute certainty:

She was in over her head.

And she was already hungry for more.