UNDECIDED (Wisemen Series #1)

3 | A Flicker of the Past

ISABELLE
___________

The Romano estate was buzzing with the kind of energy that only a grand gathering could muster. Each room overflowed with the chatter of guests, the clink of fine crystal, and the rustle of silk gowns. I adjusted the straps of my red dress, a bold choice that clung to every curve, the vibrant color a stark contrast against my usually more reserved wardrobe. It was a statement, though for whom, I wasn't entirely sure.

As I descended the grand staircase, memories of past gatherings fluttered through my mind like errant whispers.

Memories of a friendship so deep it had once felt like the surest thing in my tumultuous world. Riccardo and I had navigated these parties together as allies in a sea of strategic relationships and masked intentions.

Now, the thought of seeing him after these last few weeks, under circumstances so changed, sent a tremor of both anticipation and dread through me.

The last I'd heard of him these past few weeks was through the scattered reports from family friends and overheard conversations between my father and the capos. Riccardo had changed, they said, and they weren't wrong, the hardened by life in New York and his ascent within his father's ranks.

The playful, kind-hearted boy who had once offered me neon pink lilies as if they were precious gems was now a man who wore authority and detachment as his armor.

I paused at the foot of the stairs, scanning the room for his familiar face. I found him quicker than I expected, his features more defined by everyday and his stance more imposing than the last i remembered. Our eyes locked across the room, and for a moment, the years slid away, leaving the echo of what we had once been.

Riccardo's gaze lingered, a silent acknowledgment before he was pulled away by a group of laughing guests. I took a deep breath and ventured forward, weaving through groups of people, exchanging pleasantries, but always acutely aware of where he was in the room.

Eventually, our paths converged near the open terrace, a group of mutual acquaintances clustering around us, eager to reconnect.

Riccardo's voice, deeper but still unmistakably his, filled the spaces between people, confident and smooth. But when his eyes met mine again, there was a flicker of something unspoken before his gaze hardened.

"So, Isabelle, still playing the dutiful daughter?" he asked when the conversation turned to family roles. The question, edged with a snarky tone, was a stark departure from the warmth we once shared.

I stiffened, taken aback by his coldness. "I play many roles, Riccardo. Not all of them as predictable as you might think," I replied, my voice steady despite the sting of his words.

A smirk appeared on his lips, not quite reaching his eyes. "Of course," he said, his gaze sweeping dismissively over me. "The perfect daughter in the perfect dress. Some things never change."

The remark, so pointed and bitter, felt like a slap. I excused myself from the group, the need to escape his piercing gaze overwhelming.

As I walked away, I could feel his eyes on me, and part of me wanted to turn back, to confront him, to demand to know why he had changed so much, why he seemed to harbor such disdain for me now.

But the hurt that tightened around my heart kept me moving forward, out onto the terrace, where the cool night air could soothe the heat of my flushed cheeks.

Standing there, overlooking the gardens bathed in moonlight, I let the cool breeze dry the dampness on my cheeks, not entirely sure whether they were from anger or from something akin to grief.