𝑃ℎ𝑜𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑥 𝑅𝑒𝑏𝑜𝑟𝑛

08

~ phoenix ~

Every head beneath the glittering chandelier was upturned, watching my every step as I descended the endless stairs. I didn't peer too closely to distinguish the many faces but neither could I ignore that the sea of expressions ranged from sceptical to judgemental to scornful to lustful. If my mother were by my side, perhaps it wouldn't be so but all I was to them now was the mysterious, orphaned granddaughter of the late Franz Stilinski.

When at last the tip of my heel touched the surface of the ground floor marble, the chatter began once more, louder than it had previously been. I smiled with just enough poised elegance and to attract the first guests in my direction.

"Lyra," an older woman mused, the caked wrinkles of her cheeks deepening as she smiled a feline smile, "what a bittersweet introduction this is to society... with the loss of our dearest Franz still so fresh..."

"Mrs Wagner," I returned with equal calculation.

I remembered this face from a vast spreadsheet full of other names and faces that I was tasked to memorise by my grandmother. This guest had come from the western border, a German... friend.

My gaze swept beside to observe the entourage that wagged at her heels: women also fifty or so years old, who muttered and sneered behind their gloved fingers.

"I miss my grandfather very much but I'm also grateful that you could come," I continued, plastering some semblance of relief on my expression to flatter the woman, who I sensed needed such flattery.

"Nonsense," she barked, throwing a laugh over her shoulders at the entourage, who began their cackling a moment too late. "It was the least I could do and besides—"

Her hand suddenly shot out to my left. I barely processed what was happening before the hand returned, clutching at the arm of another. The man, with a shock of blond hair, knocked his shoulder with mine, stumbling to his mother's grasp.

"Mama!" was the frustrated, almost inaudible grunt that left his lips.

"—and besides," the hag continued, "whats a better occasion than now for you to make acquaintances with my son."

My narrowed gaze slowly moved to her right to meet the dark gaze that was already pinned on mine. Having risen to his full height, this Wagner towered over every female in the vicinity, broad-chested and thick muscled.

When he failed to introduce himself (because I failed to remember Hanna Wagner had a son), she hastily interrupted once more: "Fynn! My son, Fynn Wilhelm Wagner."

It was amusing to find only displeasure in the blond's glinting eyes. I stretched a hand out in sympathy, which he accepted a long moment later.

"It's a pleasure... Fynn Wilhelm Wagner."

"As is mine... Lyra Stilinski," replied the shockingly deep, gravelly voice.

I smiled as he slowly loosened his grip. Before I could make my farewell, I was spun around to greet other eager faces.

—

An hour after the night officially began, I was sipping at my third glass of Merlot, bloodying my lips. I seemed to be inescapably deep in a conversation, or more so lecture, from a Mr Theodore Cavendish and his silent consort. The man, who I assumed could not be older than thirty - until he opened his mouth - continued his tirade on the woeful politics of Great Britain. A moment more and I was sure I would need to feign illness.

But that's when I saw him.

Our gazes locked across the storm of chatter and laughter. And as he approached, the faces parted like the sea, until there he was, in the flesh:

"Giovanni Castillo."

Mr Cavendish stopped abruptly, glancing rapidly between the Italian and I.

Then to my absolute relief, he muttered, "Please take my leave, dear. I must go and pay my respects to your grandmother."

I nodded, "Please."

"Bella," Castillo drawled, drawing my attention back to him, "I was honoured to receive your invitation."

"The honour is mine, Don Castillo," I replied, coolly.

In the events which destroyed everything a year ago, the previous Don was fatally injured during a confrontation with St Petersburg's Bratva. Giovanni's succession was rapid, smooth as was our mutual alliance. The revolting trafficking of women was abolished at long last. Unsurprisingly, a handful of the older families revolted against the unvoted change. However, what had shocked me was that the majority stood by Castillo.

In assuming the position of head of my own mafia, I was aware it required me to forget everything; and forgetting meant forgiving. My new leaf would begin with Giovanni Castillo.

"Well,I'm obligated to ask for a dance," he announced, stretching a hand toward me, "if you'll accept."

For the thousandth time tonight, I reapplied a graceful smile and took the man by his hand, following him to another room where the orchestra entertained other swaying couples. Naturally, he pulled me closer and I caught a whiff of his cologne. My throat closed up, reminding me I hadn't smelled a cologne in what felt like years.

"Have you thought about our announcement?"

I heard him perfectly well over the melody of the violins, but pretended otherwise. Inevitably, he repeated himself, only louder.

Before I could reply, another voice interrupted. Giovanni inhaled a sharp breath, tensing at the distinct, Russian accent. I dreaded the moment our eyes would meet, but Giovanni had turned to face him and that green gaze immediately found mine.

"Your announcement," Aleksey Nikolaev had asked, tone dripping with unconcealed distaste. His eyes left mine to flicker over to Giovanni, before they returned to me.

Coming down the steps, I had noticed the Bratva party, huddled together in a corner, some men, more women. I also had wondered which consort was Aleksey's and which was his Pakhan's.

Nonetheless, seeing him so close in so long... it felt surreal, bringing back a current of the memories of another woman of another world.

Perhaps, I should've felt gratitude for the blond's interruption, preventing me from answering Giovanni's question; however, the tension palpable between the two men felt dangerous. Whilst Poland had made amends with Italy, clearly Russia had not.

Giovanni was the first to break the taut silence, "Our announcement, yes."

Once more, Aleksey's eyes flicked with derision to the hand that was still laid flat against my hip. He muttered something under his breath, something that roused back the hurt that took months to bury.

The Italian's hand slipped away as he squared up to Aleksey, who didn't fail to puff out his chest either. Once more, I wore my cool expression, rolled my eyes and moved to intercept the stand-off, reeking of testosterone.

However, before I could process it, I caught a glimpse of dark, silver eyes, and then, I was being towed behind a heavy, velvet curtain.

NOTE:
Hoes, I'm sickkkkk!! I keep coughing and my room is filled up with dirty tissues! I feel like absolute shit!
xo, Rosavi