To Enrico Montanelli's grand gala

The Reckoning – A Party in Hell

The moon hung low over Torino’s hills, casting long shadows across the manicured grounds of Enrico Montanelli’s palatial estate. The mansion—a grotesque monument to new money and old corruption—blazed with light, its floor-to-ceiling windows revealing a bacchanal in full swing.

"Here, we, go."

Stefano crouched in the shadows of a marble fountain, his golden eyes tracking the movement of silk-clad socialites and coked-up heirs through the glass.

The Osiris Ring pulsed against his finger, its dark energy whispering promises of vengeance.

"Zosimus Von Stawren III," Stefano murmured, rolling the name over his tongue like a bitter wine. The young Austrian heir was inside—drunk, arrogant, and most importantly, disposable.

Stefano’s claws flexed.

"Hope he has a hot girlfriend..."

The Infiltration

The party roared around him as Stefano slipped through the grand ballroom, his borrowed face—Zosimus’s sharp cheekbones, the rich heir's perpetually bored smirk—earning him nothing more than passing glances from the champagne-soaked crowd. The real Zosimus lay **** in a service closet, the young man's memories rifled through, his identity stolen.

Stefano accepted a crystal flute of Dom Pérignon from a passing waiter, his gaze sweeping the room.

"Ah, Zosimus! Finally gracing us with your presence!"

A hand clapped him on the shoulder. Stefano turned, his borrowed face twisting into Zosimus’s signature smirk.

"Wouldn’t miss Jezebel’s birthday for the world," he drawled, his voice a perfect mimicry of the Austrian’s lazy cadence.

The man—some minor Italian count whose name Stefano didn’t bother to recall—laughed too loudly, his breath reeking of cocaine and privilege. "She’s been asking for you. Something about that bet you made in Saint-Tropez?"

Stefano’s borrowed lips curled. "I’ll find her."

He moved through the crowd, the Ring’s power humming beneath his skin. The ballroom was a grotesque display of wealth—ice sculptures melting into silver trays of Beluga caviar, women in couture gowns laughing too loudly at unfunny jokes, their Botoxed faces frozen in perpetual amusement.

And then—there she was.

Jezebel Montanelli.

"Fuck..."

The Viper in Silk

She lounged on a velvet chaise like a spoiled empress, her champagne flute dangling from manicured fingers. At twenty-seven, she was the picture of carefully curated beauty—long dark hair, pouty lips, eyes like chips of green glass. The same eyes that had stared down at Stefano all those years ago as she handed in her plagiarized thesis with a smirk.

"Zosimus," she purred as Stefano approached. "You’re late."

Stefano bowed, pressing a mocking kiss to her knuckles. "Forgive me, principessa. The traffic from Vienna was dreadful."

Jezebel’s laugh was a sharp, tinkling thing. "Liar. You were fucking that Russian ballerina again, weren’t you?"

Stefano slid onto the chaise beside her, his borrowed fingers trailing up her bare arm. "And if I was?"

She leaned in, her breath warm and sweet with champagne. "Then I’d have to punish you."

Stefano’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Promises, promises."

The Trap Springs

An hour later, Stefano had Jezebel alone on the mansion’s third-floor balcony, the sounds of the party fading below them. The night air was cool, the city lights twinkling in the distance.

"You’ve been quiet tonight," Jezebel murmured, her fingers playing with the collar of his shirt. "Not like you at all."

Stefano turned to her, his golden eyes bleeding through Zosimus’s borrowed blue.

"Funny," he murmured. "I was thinking the same thing about you."

Jezebel froze.

"Wha—"

Stefano’s hand shot out, clamping over her mouth as he yanked the young heirress against him. The Osiris Ring flared, its dark energy slithering into her veins.

"F-Fuck... What are you doin... G-Guards! Hel... Hmmph..."

Jezebel’s blue eyes widened, her slender body going rigid as the Ring’s power took hold.

"Shhh," Stefano whispered, Zosimus' low baritone layered with hypnotic corruption, the middle-aged archeologist's real voice peeking through. "You remember me, don’t you, Jezebel? The professor you ruined?"

Recognition flashed in her eyes—then terror.

Stefano smiled.

"Good."

The Fall

By the time the party ended, Jezebel Montanelli would remember nothing of her encounter with "Zosimus."

But when she woke tomorrow, she would find the Osiris Ring’s mark burning on her inner thigh—a coiled serpent, waiting to strike.

And Stefano?

He was already gone, slipping into the night like a shadow, his next target already in sight.