Twelve Nights Before Christmas; The Alpha Revenge Bride

12 DAYS TO CHRISTMAS

The limousine rolls to a stop at the base of the Vasiliev estate. Snow drifts across the drive. The mansion ahead looks more like a palace than a home, wreaths on the iron gates, an ice sculpture of a wolf at the entrance, the faint sound of Christmas carolers somewhere beyond the walls.

Eve's mother adjusts her fur shawl and says, "Remember, dear, smile when someone's looking, and say nothing when they're not."

Eve smooths her gold dress. "That's your advice for everything."

"It works," her father mutters from beside her, checking his watch. "Don Vasiliev runs on precision. Late arrivals are remembered."

They step out together. Their breath clouds the air. The doorman in a navy coat nods them through, and inside, warmth and music swallow the cold.

The ballroom glitters from floor to ceiling, garlands over marble columns, candles in crystal holders, a Christmas tree taller than the balcony itself.

Red ornaments catch the light, scattering color across sequined gowns and polished shoes. Laughter and champagne fill the room. Somewhere, a quartet plays "Silent Night" in slow, elegant rhythm.

Eve keeps close to her parents, trying not to stare at the rows of armed men in suits along the walls. The guests dance, exchange cheek kisses, talk in Italian and Russian. It smells of pine, perfume, and expensive cigars.

Her mother whispers as they move through the crowd, "The man by the fireplace, that's a senator. Don't mention politics. And if you see Lyra D'Amato, avoid her altogether."

"I don't even know who that is," Eve whispers back.

"Exactly."

Her father's tone cuts quietly through their chatter. "Heads up. The Alpha's here."

Eve frowns. "The what?"

Before he can answer, the string quartet shifts tempo. The crowd parts near the grand staircase, and a tall man descends with the quiet attention of a king who doesn't need an announcement. Black tuxedo, clean lines, posture straight enough to look military. His gray eyes move once across the room, and people fall silent without knowing why.

Lucian Vasiliev.

Eve knows his name before anyone says it. Her parents straighten instinctively. He's younger than she expected, maybe thirty, maybe less but he carries himself like someone who's already lost things. His gray eyes scan the room until they find her.

Eve looks away, suddenly aware of how tightly she's holding her clutch. "He's staring," she murmurs.

"Everyone stares at the Alpha Don," her father says under his breath. "Don't stare back."

But she does. Not because she wants to but because she can't seem to stop. He's speaking to another guest now, but his attention keeps flicking toward her between words, small, deliberate glances that make her throat dry.

Her mother squeezes her elbow. "He'll come over if you look too long."

"I'm not-" Eve begins, but a voice interrupts.

"Signor Moretti."

Lucian stands in front of them. Close enough now that she can see the faint line of a scar under his jaw, and that his tie pin isn't gold, but steel carved with the Vasiliev crest, a wolf head beneath a crown.

Her father takes the lead. "Don Vasiliev. Thank you for the invitation."

"An honor to have the Morettis with us," Lucian says, his voice steady, slightly rough. His gaze drifts to Eve again. "And this?"

"My daughter, Eve," her mother says quickly. "She's been looking forward to meeting you."

Eve gives a small nod. "It's a beautiful party, Don Vasiliev."

"Lucian," he corrects softly. "Everyone calls me Lucian tonight. It's the Christmas season."

His words aren't friendly, exactly, but they pull her in. He reaches for a passing tray, takes a glass of champagne, and offers it to her. "First time at a syndicate event?"

She accepts the drink, trying to seem composed. "Is it that obvious?"

He smiles, not wide, not warm, but real enough to make her heart skip. "You're the only one looking around as if you still believe in Christmas."

Her father chuckles awkwardly. "She's young. That fades fast."

Lucian's eyes stay on hers. "Let's hope it doesn't."

Before Eve can reply, a crash echoes from near the buffet, a tray of crystal glasses tipping, shattering across the marble. Guests gasp, servants rush forward.

Eve flinches at the sound. The champagne slips from her hand and Lucian catches it midair, his reflexes precise. The drink barely spills.

He glances at her, one brow raised. "You all right?"

Eve nods, startled. "I didn't mean to-"

"Don't apologize." He sets the glass on a nearby table. "Things break here all the time."

A waiter murmurs something about clearing the mess. Lucian looks back at her, then gestures toward the dance floor as the orchestra begins another song, something slow, laced with Christmas bells.

"Dance with me, Miss Moretti," he says.

Her father starts to protest, "Don Vasiliev, she-"

Lucian doesn't look at him. "It's Christmas. You wouldn't want to refuse a tradition."

Eve hesitates only a second. "All right."

He offers his hand. She takes it.

And as he leads her toward the lights, the guests start whispering, quiet, surprised, and watching.

Lucian's hand is steady when he guides her through the crowd. Eve can feel every glance they draw. The music is softer now, a slow piece arranged for Christmas Eve. The chandelier lights catch on Lucian's cufflinks when he turns toward her.

He says, "Do you dance, Miss Moretti?"

"Enough not to embarrass myself."

He smiles faintly. "Then you're already ahead of most people here."

His hand finds her waist. Hers rests in his palm. They start moving together, quiet and careful. He's practiced, confident. Eve focuses on keeping her breathing even.

"Your family runs the Moretti syndicate in Milan," he says. "Your father's name comes up in every meeting I attend."

"He says the same about you," she answers. "Except his version sounds more like a warning."

Lucian laughs under his breath. "He's not wrong."

Their eyes meet. It feels strangely private, even though everyone's watching.

"You don't look like someone who belongs in this crowd," he says after a moment.

Eve frowns. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're still looking people in the eye. Most of them stopped doing that years ago."

She studies him. "And you?"

"I stopped before I had to."

The corners of her mouth lift. "That's sad."

"It's practical."

They fall silent again, moving easily now. The scent of pine and warm wine lingers around them. He smells faintly of smoke and something sharper, something she can't place.

When the song shifts tempo, he doesn't step away. His fingers tighten slightly on her waist. "You should visit Verona more often," he says. "It suits you."

"I'll take that as a compliment," she says lightly.

"It was."

The crowd starts to whisper again. She can feel the attention return. A woman near the orchestra is watching them with a fixed smile.

Lucian's eyes flick toward her for a second, unreadable. Then back to Eve. "Ignore them. They always talk."

"I wasn't worried," Eve says. "I'm used to gossip."

"Good. Then you'll survive this world Cuore mio."

Before she can answer, a security guard approaches from the edge of the dance floor. He leans in close to Lucian's ear, saying something too low for Eve to catch.

Lucian's entire posture changes. The easy expression vanishes.

"What happened?" she asks.

He releases her hand. "Excuse me for a moment."

The guard murmurs again. Lucian's jaw tightens. He nods once and starts toward the doors, his tone quiet but hard. "Get everyone outside. Now."

Eve turns to her parents, who are already moving through the crowd.

"What's going on?" she asks.

Her father's grip on her arm is firm. "We're leaving."

"Why? The night just started."

"Because when an Alpha tells his men to clear a room, something's about to go wrong."

Before Eve can press him, the ballroom lights flicker. A brief cut of darkness sweeps through the chandeliers, and for one breath, everything is still. Then the backup lights blink on. The orchestra stumbles, guests murmur.

Lucian is gone.

For a few seconds, the ballroom is all confusion. Guests check their phones, mutter about the outage, wave down waiters for reassurance. The chandeliers hum back to life, but the music doesn't resume right away. Someone laughs nervously and starts clapping.

Eve stands near the center, half-hidden behind a marble pillar, watching people drift toward the buffet again. Her parents are already talking with another couple near the exit.

"Stay here," her father says before walking off.

She doesn't.

Her steps carry her toward the side corridor where Lucian disappeared. Two guards in black stand by the door. She hesitates. "Is everything all right?"

One glances at her, unmoving. "Just a small problem, miss. Please return to the party."

The tone leaves no room for argument. Eve turns back, but the music starts again before she reaches the main floor. A slow waltz, deliberate, the kind that expects people to behave as if nothing happened.

She doesn't see her parents anymore. A tray of champagne passes by, and she takes one, more for something to do than the taste.

"Abandoned already?"