Chapter 1 The Trade
"Give me one reason not to pull this trigger."
The gun felt heavy in my hand, but my voice stayed steady when I pressed it against my father's temple.
He didn't even flinch, and that made my hands shake more than anything else.
The study was nearly empty now, all the paintings gone, sold off piece by piece like everything else in this house. Even the curtains had disappeared, leaving the windows bare and ugly.
"Because you're smart enough to know a corpse can't pay debts," he said without looking at me. "They'll kill you next."
My throat burned. "You sold me like furniture, like one of your paintings."
"I made a deal, Dante Caravelli gets you, and I get to keep breathing, simple math."
Simple math. I wanted to laugh or scream or both, but I did neither because crying was what got mama killed, being soft, being weak. That's what he always said anyway.
"The car comes at dawn, so pack light, you won't need much where you're going." He finally looked at me then, and his eyes were empty, dead.
He'd been dead inside for years, really, ever since Mama died.
I could do it right now, pull the trigger and end him. But he was right about one thing: his death would mean mine because the people he owed didn't forgive debts just because someone stopped breathing.
I lowered the gun and walked to the door, my boots clicking on the marble floor.
"Lilith." His voice stopped me, but I didn't turn around.
"Your mother was weak and soft, that's what got her killed, so don't be like her."
My fingers tightened on the gun until my knuckles went white. "Mama was the only good thing in this house, and you're the one who got her killed."
I left before he could answer, and the hallway stretched out dark and empty in front of me. I passed the spot where Mama died, where the white marble had been scrubbed clean but never really clean, not to me anyway.
I'd been twelve, hiding behind the curtains and watching everything. The men had come at night, loud and angry, wanting money father didn't have.
Mama had tried to calm them down and reason with them, but they didn't care about reason.
She'd stood between them and the stairs that led to my room; she'd died so I could live.
One of the men had worn a ring that caught the light, silver with a black stone and a family crest carved into it. I'd never forgotten that ring, not in eight years.
I reached my room and locked the door, even though the locks didn't mean much anymore.
The house had been broken into twice last month alone because guards cost money, and father couldn't afford anything expensive these days.
I pulled out my black bag and started packing clothes, simple ones that wouldn't make me a target.
Money hidden in an old coat lining, my phone with only one contact that mattered. And the knife, always the knife, tucked into my boot where it belonged.
Then I went back to Papa's study one last time.
He was gone, probably drinking himself stupid like usual, so I opened his safe.
The combination was easy since he'd never changed it from mama's birthday; some things he couldn't let go of, I guess, even if one of them was her.
I wanted to find some money or anything valuable that could help me run away, but what I saw changed my mind instantly.
Inside, I found documents about Caravelli's business operations and photographs that could be useful as leverage.
But then I found something else, something that made my hands shake so hard I almost dropped everything.
Investigation reports and police files, photographs from the night Mama died.
And there, clear as anything, were men in Caravelli colours leaving the scene. One of them wore that ring, that silver ring with the black stone that I saw in my nightmares.
Dante Caravelli's men had killed my mother.
Maybe Dante himself had given the order.
And now Papa was sending me straight to him, gift-wrapped and helpless.
I took photos of everything with my phone and sent copies to a secure cloud before putting the originals back exactly where I found them.
My hands had stopped shaking by then because fury burned steadier than fear.
Back in my room, I stared at the pictures on my phone and zoomed in on that ring, on the crest, on the faces I would learn to recognise.
Father thought he was throwing me away like garbage, getting rid of a problem he couldn't afford anymore.
He was wrong, though; he was giving me exactly what I needed, which was access and opportunity.
Dante Caravelli had money and power with an entire empire.
And I was going to take all of it before I destroyed him.
For mama.
Always for mama.
I set my alarm for four in the morning and lay down fully clothed with the knife pressing against my leg through my boot. Sleep didn't come, so I just stared at the ceiling and planned instead.
When dawn broke, I was ready.
The car was black and expensive and too clean for the dirty streets around Palazzo Rosetti. Two men got out, looking big and professional.
They gestured for me to get in without saying a word.
I took one last look at my childhood home, at the place where I'd been happy once upon a time in another life. Then I got in the car and didn't look back.
We drove through Castello Nero as the sun rose, and the city was beautiful in the morning light, old buildings with new paint, cobblestone streets, and cafes just opening their doors.
Normal people starting normal days.
People who didn't live in my world.
I watched everything and memorised streets and landmarks and escape routes because I was always thinking, always planning.
The car climbed higher into the hills where the rich people lived, where the powerful and dangerous made their homes.
La Rocca District, the Rock, named for the cliff it sat on.
And at the very top, rising like something out of a dark fairy tale, was Villa Caravelli.
It was massive with stone walls and iron gates and cameras everywhere, guards in expensive suits stood at every corner with guns barely hidden under their jackets.
This wasn't a home at all; it was a fortress.
The gates opened after more guards checked the car and looked at papers, and spoke into radios. Everything was designed to intimidate, to remind visitors that this was Dante Caravelli's kingdom and he was king.
The driveway stretched long and perfect with trees on both sides and more cameras than I could count.
When the car finally stopped, it wasn't at the front entrance like I'd expected.
It was at a side door, the servants' entrance.
One of the men opened my door. "Out."
I got out and straightened my jacket, and lifted my chin because I wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing me scared.
An older man waited for me, maybe fifty with a scarred face and hard eyes, he looked me up and down like I was livestock at market.
"Giovanni Marchetti, head of security, follow me."
"When do I meet Dante Caravelli?" I asked.
His smile wasn't nice at all. "The Don will see you when he wishes, if he wishes."
He led me inside through narrow hallways and servant corridors where the walls were plain and the floors were old. Other people passed us and stared and whispered.
Giovanni stopped at a door and opened it to show me a tiny room with a bed, and dresser and a small window with iron bars.
"You start in the kitchens at four AM, so don't be late." He turned to leave.
"That's it?" My voice came out sharper than I meant it to. "That's all?"
He looked back at me with that same cold smile. "What did you expect? A welcome party? You're here to work off your father's debt and nothing more. You follow orders, stay out of sight, and don't cause problems, simple rules. Break them and you're gone."
"Gone where?"
His smile widened. "You really want to know?"
I didn't answer because I already knew what gone meant in this world.
The door closed, and I heard a lock click. They'd locked me in like a prisoner, which I guess I was.
I sat on the bed and pulled out my phone to send Selena a message. "I'm in."
Then I pulled up the photos again, the evidence, the faces of the men who'd killed Mama. I looked longest at one picture of Dante Caravelli at a funeral five years ago, his wife's funeral, according to the notes.
He looked cold and dangerous.
I traced his face on the screen with one finger. "Enjoy your empire while you can, I'm going to burn it to the ground."
I deleted everything and hid my phone under the mattress with my knife, then I lay down and stared at the ceiling because tomorrow I would start playing the part.
Obedient, quiet, harmless.
But inside, I was already at war.
And Dante Caravelli didn't even know it yet.