May 7 2021. 20:31. Rome. Gala day.
Yesterday, the gala site looked expensive. Tonight, it looks closer to unreal.
The entire avenue, now fully transformed, is a glowing artery of wealth, influence, and old-world beauty.
Historic buildings rise on both sides with warm light spilling across their stone faces, while rows of hanging lights stretch above the street like stars somebody paid to install by hand. Decorative banners sway softly in the evening air from walls and street lamps alike. Floral arrangements sit beside polished barriers. Temporary stages glow beneath elegant lighting setups while classical musicians perform near one end of the venue, their music blending with conversation, laughter, and the quiet hum of security drones overhead.
Every detail looks intentional.
Glassware sparkles beneath the lights. Carpets look inviting, practically begging to be walked across. The lighting itself strikes the perfect balance between warm and moody. Even the seating areas have been positioned carefully, accessible for tired feet without interrupting the flow of traffic.
Nothing about this place feels accidental. Nothing at all.
Guests flow through the avenue in waves, dressed in gowns, suits, and the kind of subtle wealth that's louder than anything flashy. Politicians, executives, socialites, old-money families, private security, and people pretending not to be criminals all move through the same beautiful space as if this isn't one of the most dangerous nights in Italy.
To them, it really is just a gala. To me, though, it's closer to a battlefield wearing perfume.
More people means more eyes, sure, but it also means more bodies to hide behind, more conversations to disappear into, and more movement to mask an approach.
Every cluster of guests becomes cover. Every server carrying drinks becomes a possible courier. Every laugh, every cheer, and every burst of music becomes noise someone could use to hide footsteps, comms, or a weapon being drawn.
The crowd makes open violence harder, but not entirely impossible.
If someone wants to stop Dante tonight, they probably won't turn the entire avenue into a shooting gallery unless they're either desperate, stupid, or completely willing to accept the civilian casualties.
Then again, that assumes the crowd is fully innocent.
My eyes drift across the guests.
A man adjusting his cufflinks too often. A woman laughing with one hand always near her clutch. A waiter moving slower than the rest. A guard checking rooftops but not windows.
The thought crosses my mind before I can stop it.
Unless the crowd itself is compromised. Not all of them, obviously. That would be absurd.
But I wouldn't be surprised if a portion of them were simply lying in wait. There are enough people here for that. Hell, the staff itself is a mix of actual industry hires and mafia members posing as staff, albeit with genuine experience.
All it would take is one order. One spark.
Then panic would come bursting out in every direction.
A false alarm at one entrance. A drone malfunction overhead. A sudden surge through the crowd.
That's it. That's all we'd need to light the fuse, and this beautiful avenue would turn into a funnel of bodies trying to escape.
I'd bet on it.
My gaze drifts across the various entrances as I run through one final mental checklist before this inevitably gets complicated.
I breathe in slowly, taking in the calm before the storm.
People crowd around the entrances, which makes them difficult to control but easy to monitor. The rooftops are dangerous, but most of them are already covered by Dante's people. The service corridors are the real problem since staff movement gives anyone an excuse to keep passing through. The stages provide visibility, but they also draw attention away from the edges of the venue.
If a firefight breaks out, the best exits aren't the main gates.
Those will clog immediately. The side alleys are better.
My fingers brush lightly against the access card Shock gave me, hidden on my person.
Even though Shock and Dante have already given me multiple ways to move through both the lower and upper levels of the gala, I still find myself periodically checking that the keycard—the easiest and most reliable way to move around—is still there.
Thankfully, It is.
Still, it's not something worth obsessing over.
A sigh escapes me as I shift from scanning the general crowd to looking for someone specifically.
Honestly, this entire thing is a mess.
The venue is massive. The guest list is ridiculous. Every important person in Dante's orbit seems to be here somewhere, and half of them are deliberately trying not to be found while the other half are surrounded by enough security to make approaching them annoying.
And that's before factoring in the possibility that somebody is actively trying to kill people tonight.
Fun.
My eyes move through the crowd again.
Politicians. Corporate representatives. Socialites. Mafia members pretending not to be mafia members. The occasional actual tourist who somehow managed to wander into the most expensive event in Rome and is currently living the best day of their life.
None of them are who I'm looking for.
I check my texts. Nothing urgent, at least for now.
My mind drifts back to a few hours ago, before the gala officially began, back in my room.
Shock was trying way too hard to sound chipper. Which, ironically, made it obvious she wasn't.
The two of us had spent the better part of the afternoon getting ready while she bounced between checking security reports, reviewing network access, and pretending she wasn't worried.
Of course, in reality, the hacker incident had rattled her more than she'd admit.
If someone had gotten into the systems without being noticed before she arrived, then there was no guarantee they'd found everything afterward.
The uncertainty was understandably eating away at her, even if she refused to say it outright.
She stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the last details of her outfit before fastening a simple golden locket around her neck.
Then she looked over at me.
"If we die tonight, at least we'll look good doing it, girlfriend."
She licked her index finger before making an exaggerated hissing sound and pretending to extinguish a candle.
I immediately rolled my eyes. "Stop being so dramatic."
Shock pointed at me. "You say dramatic. I say realistic."
"You say realistic. I say you've watched too many movies."
"Both can be true!" I adjusted the last piece of my outfit and checked my reflection one final time. "Hypothetically, if we did die tonight, then yeah. At least the outfits are 'serving'."
The second the words left my mouth, a snort escaped me.
Shock froze.
Then she slowly turned toward me.
"Oh my gosh."
"No."
"Oh my gosh."
"No."
"You said it."
"I hate you."
"You literally said serving."
"I hate you."
Shock immediately doubled over laughing, and I couldn't help smiling despite myself.
No. Focus, Gina.
I lightly shake my head, forcing myself back to the present.
The gala isn't getting any safer just because I got distracted thinking about Shock.
When the rest of us approached the venue properly, I ended up splitting off from the group before we officially entered.
Deliberately, of course.
Walking in beside Dante would immediately associate me with him. Walking beside Wissen, Mister, or even Shock would do the same. That's useful sometimes.
Right now isn't one of those times.
Instead, I slipped into a different role: a wealthy young woman with a little too much money and far too much free time.
The kind of guest who spends more time attending events than contributing to them.
It helps that the outfit, one that Shock chose for me, sells it. Combined with my own accessories and little touch-ups, of course.
Nothing tactical or threatening about me either. Just expensive enough to belong.
Within minutes, I'm another guest drifting through the crowd after passing reception.
Exactly how I like it.
My eyes continue working despite the disguise, spotting the rest of the party almost immediately.
Mister remains near Dante, carrying himself with quiet professionalism. Wissen is nearby too, though true to his word, he's staying firmly in the background tonight.
Probably already ten moves ahead of everybody else.
Then my attention lands on Rafael, our only trusted contact within the mafia besides Dante.
The man is impossible to miss. Massive doesn't even begin to cover it.
Blake is huge for a borg, but Rafael looks huge for a natty—or at least, at first glance, he seems organic enough when it comes to his muscles. Broad shoulders. Thick arms. A chest that looks like it was built specifically to absorb punches.
Then again, with how many borged-out people I saw earlier on security, it's probably a bit too hasty for me to fully commit to that conclusion.
Regardless, it's the kind of strength that comes from decades of fighting, working, surviving, and refusing to stay down.
What's most notable is his handlebar moustache, which remains as ridiculous as ever from when I first met him.
And somehow it works, adding a funny little contrast to his otherwise intimidating appearance.
The slicked-back dark hair, heavy brow, and permanently focused expression make him look less like a security chief and more like a retired heavyweight champion who accidentally wandered into organized crime.
Even surrounded by private security, Rafael still stands out through sheer size alone.
At least we have one reliable contact.
For now, though, I let everyone continue with their own responsibilities.
The real gala is beginning. And with it, the succession process.
I drift deeper into the crowd alone, weaving between conversations and clusters of guests.
Observation first. Commitment later.
My gaze eventually finds Shock, immediately catching my attention.
She's standing close to several members of the Camorra while Dante guides her through the venue. Every now and then, someone greets her. A hand lands on her shoulder. Someone else briefly pulls her into a hug. Another older member squeezes her arm while speaking quietly.
They look comfortable around her. At least from a first glance.
It suddenly occurs to me that this is probably the first time she's seen many of these people in person for years.
The difference is subtle, and most people probably wouldn't notice it.
But I do.
Right now, she's acting like a different version of herself.
The hyperactive pop-girl energy and exaggerated girlboss comments are gone.
She's still smiling and being social, though. That part hasn't changed.
But beneath it all, there's a different calmness now. A controlled one. She looks less like someone attending a party and more like someone attending an important corporate meeting.
No doubt the tension is still there too.
It's just hidden better now that she's got her mafia brain switched on.
Those must be some of the senior members. Maybe even underbosses?
I try to make out their appearances, but the distance combined with the sheer number of bodies makes it increasingly difficult.
Before I can think about it much longer, Dante begins guiding her farther into the venue.
Toward the people that actually matter tonight.
My eyes follow them for a moment before they disappear deeper into the gala.
Damn it. I can't see them anymore.
So I let them go.
Instead, I try looking for someone named Linh Tcheou.
Which would be a lot easier if Shock had actually given me details.
Unfortunately, "Asian woman" is about the extent of the briefing I received before we ran out of time.
Apparently, Linh is someone both Shock and Mister met while they were running around Rome earlier in the week. Beyond that? Nothing.
No photo. No age. No detailed information about her profession beyond Shock describing her as a "big shot."
Whatever that means.
No clue whether she's mafia, corporate, independent, or just somebody unfortunate enough to get tangled up in all this.
Thanks, Shock. Veryyyy fucking helpful.
I shake my head.
There's no point getting salty now.
Instead, I spend the next several minutes drifting through the venue while keeping an eye out for anyone who might fit the description.
The problem is that a third of the gala fits the description.
Rome might not be Vancouver, but an event like this attracts all kinds of people.
Every time I think I've found someone promising, it turns out to be another executive, politician, socialite, or spouse.
It gets frustrating enough that eventually I stop actively searching and let myself blend into the flow of the evening instead.
If Linh is here, she'll show herself eventually. If not, forcing it won't help.
I smooth out my dress as I move through another cluster of guests.
Shock really outdid herself with this one.
The dress fits perfectly, and it's elegant enough to belong here without looking like it's trying too hard. Combined with my makeup, altered eye colour through contact lenses, temporary skin-tone adjustments, modified hair, and a disposable vocal modulator hidden beneath the outfit, I barely resemble myself anymore.
Even my posture is different.
My walk. My smile. The way I hold eye contact.
Years of pretending to be other people have taught me one important lesson: most disguises fail because people focus too much on appearance and not enough on behaviour.
A silver-haired businessman spends ten minutes talking about investment opportunities before subtly attempting to determine whether I'm single.
Another guest congratulates me on a fictional company I invented three conversations ago.
A third spends so much time talking about himself that I'm fairly certain he forgets my fake name halfway through the discussion.
I smile, laugh, and nod.
Occasionally, I ask questions in a mix of English and deliberately awful Italian, making a fool of myself to sell the act. I provide just enough information to seem genuine while revealing absolutely nothing useful to anyone.
By the end of it, I've collected several names, business cards, contact information, and enough gossip to fill a small database.
Most of it is worthless. Some of it isn't.
One conversation leads to another. Another leads to an introduction. Then another.
Not to my surprise, but definitely to my disappointment, the gala is far less of a social gathering and far more of a giant networking web disguised as a celebration.
If anything comes close to surprising me, it's how few people are even pretending otherwise.
Everyone here wants something.
Influence. Money. Access. Recognition. Security. Power.
The smiles simply make it easier to ask.
At one point, I somehow end up sitting at a piano.
I don't even remember how.
One moment I'm talking with a group of guests, and the next somebody discovers I can play.
Then somebody else insists.
Then suddenly I'm seated in front of polished ivory keys while several dozen people watch.
It does feel a little fun, though. I won't lie. I know for a fact that's my ego talking.
Of course, I don't go crazy. I keep it simple, just enough to entertain and maintain the illusion.
The response is immediate.
Polite applause. Genuine smiles. More introductions. A few compliments.
Some are sincere. Others aren't.
Really, people are just lining up to get the young rich girl's number, either for business or for... pleasure.
A middle-aged woman seems genuinely happy to meet someone she believes successfully built a career in Night City. A younger executive keeps finding reasons to stand slightly too close. A politician's son attempts to flirt with all the subtlety of a freight train. Another guest is clearly more interested in whatever social status they think I possess than anything I actually have to say.
The mixture is fascinating.
Some people are genuinely kind. Some people are genuinely interested.
Most are simply hunting opportunities wrapped inside polite conversation.
Then again, so am I.
Maybe I don't have the credentials to call anyone out, considering I'm masquerading around with my own walls of lies.
Part of me argues that the difference is that I'm at least honest with myself about it.
Then another part reminds me of the things Azure said.
I fight the urge to bite my lip and force myself not to follow that train of thought.
Eventually, I catch my reflection in one of the venue windows.
The woman staring back looks confident.
Elegant. Approachable. Successful.
Exactly the sort of person people want to talk to—and underestimate.
A dumb broad with a pretty face and wallet.
In other words, a trophy.
Ugh.
Still, after another conversation and another polite laugh, I find myself reaching a conclusion.
I've probably learned everything this persona can realistically learn tonight.
Any more attention and I risk becoming far too memorable. And at that point, it becomes dangerous. For me and everyone else. Especially when I don't know who's watching.
I take a slow sip from my drink and glance across the sea of guests surrounding me.
The gala continues around me in a swirl of music, wealth, and carefully hidden agendas.
For now, I've had enough of the spotlight.
After talking my way out of a few hookups, business meetings, and one particularly persistent appointment invitation, I excuse myself to the "restroom" and slip back into the background.
The moment I leave the social circles behind, the relief is immediate.
Not because I dislike talking to people.
Because pretending to be somebody else for hours is exhausting.
Tetra, Remi, and Mister remain scattered throughout different sections of the venue, most likely. Most of their work involves periodically checking in with Rafael and his people while casually observing entrances, exits, guards, staff, and guests.
At least on the surface, they're doing exactly what they're supposed to be doing.
Meanwhile, I assume Dante, Shock, and Wissen are already deeper inside the gala. Possibly with Rafael too, if he hasn't been pulled away by security matters.
If the incoming Don has already arrived, then they're probably meeting with him right now.
And if not? Then they're preparing for it.
Either way, they're operating in a completely different world from the one I'm currently walking through.
As I move through one of the quieter hallways near the edge of the venue, multiple plans unfold in my mind.
I've probably squeezed everything I can out of this identity.
People handed me information without realizing they were doing it.
But now? The returns are diminishing.
Anyone worth talking to has already been talked to.
Anyone important enough to know something useful is either deeper inside the gala or protected by enough layers of security that this version of me isn't getting close.
My eyes drift toward one of the secured staff corridors.
A pair of guards stand near the entrance.
Beyond them sits a section of the venue most guests won't be seeing tonight unless they're "VIP," which is really just a fancy label for Neapolitan Camorra associates and members.
My fingers lightly brush the hidden access card on my person as I slow near a decorative column, pretending to check my phone.
My gaze shifts back toward the guarded corridor.
The security personnel don't look concerned, and the gala continues exactly as intended.
Which somehow makes me trust my instincts even less.
The calm feels real.
But so did the calm yesterday until we got our surprise van visitor.
And the day before that, right up until people started disappearing.
I exhale slowly and clench my fist.
Maybe it's paranoia. Or maybe it's experience. Honestly, it's probably both.
A few seconds pass while I contemplate my next move.
Then, eventually, I get tired of running through fifty different variations of the same plan and just settle on one.
I roll my eyes.
Whatever. Time for outfit number two.