Page 1 of Accidental Alliance

1

ELIO

I stand in the shadowed alcove of the old banquet hall unseen, my eyes roaming the space in front of me leisurely.

Expensive cologne drifts through the room in thick, cloying waves every time another suited man brushes past my hidden spot, each one muskier than the last and pungent enough to sting the back of my throat.

Beneath it comes the sweeter, powdery weight of perfume from the women draped over their arms like jeweled ornaments, all silk skin and rehearsed laughter, their smiles polished to a shine that never quite reaches their eyes.

Lurking beneath their glamour, like a body rotting under freshly poured concrete, is the smell of the food—butter, garlic, seared meat, the salty fragrance of warm hors d’oeuvres balanced on silver trays by waiters who move with their chins tucked low, careful not to meet the eyes of the wolves circling the room.

It is always the same at gatherings like this. Gold on the surface, blood hidden underneath.

The chandeliers hanging overhead cast everything in a honeyed glow, softening the age of the cracked ornate crown molding running along the ceiling and the water stains hidden high in the corners.

From a distance, the hall still looks grand and prestigious, but standing where I am, half swallowed by the dark, I can see the truth.

Time has been chewing away at this place for years now.

The floor beneath their polished shoes warps in places, causing guests to stumble without warning, convincing them that they’ve consumed one too many glasses of champagne before moving on to the next circle of oligarchs to schmooze.

The velvet drapes pulled over the far windows have begun to fray at the hem. Even the marble pillars that line the walls bear hairline cracks if you know where to look.

Beautiful things always tend to break, I’ve found.

Much like the men gathered here who build empires around the illusion of permanence, still believing themselves to be different from their predecessors.

They wrap themselves in their tailored suits, family crests, old names, and expensive women, believing any of it can keep the end from finding them as it does us all.

They laugh too loudly, drink too freely, speak in veiled threats, all the while pretending violence is just another form of diplomacy.

Half this room has ordered killings with those same manicured hands now wrapped around crystal glasses.

I know because I have done worse with mine.

Tonight, I keep them tucked behind my back.

My expression remains unreadable, my shoulders relaxed in a way that if anyone were to glance in my direction, they would find my posture casual.

My father always says calmness frightens people more than rage ever can.

Rage is sloppy and typically predictable, but remaining outwardly unbothered never fails to make most wonder what you are willing to do and how much it might cost them by challenging it.

From my place in the alcove, I have a clean view of nearly the entire hall.

The older families cluster where they always do, near the center of the room where they can be seen.

The ambitious ones hover at the edges, hungry and smiling, desperate for a nod from somebody whose last name carries weight.

The guards are easier to spot than they believe.

Their thick necks, cheap suits stretched over broader frames, eyes that move too often, and hands that stay too close to their jackets are what give them away every time.

A few of them scan the room with veiled discipline, but most are already growing lazy under the haze of music, alcohol, and the false sense of security this place pretends to offer.

Amateurs.

A string quartet plays somewhere off to the left, their music floating through the hall in smooth, elegant notes that barely soften the ugliness of the guests attending this event.