Serina Montiel
Power tastes different when it's stolen.
Some say it's sweet. Me? I think it burns — slow, smoky, like scotch on a bleeding tongue. Empires like mine? You don't inherit them. You build them with blood, carve them from corpses, and call it wreckage fate—like dressing a massacre in velvet and calling it a crown.
My family vacationed in blood; Father believed in legacy, Mother believed in silence, and brothers believed in bullets before breakfast. But I didn't believe in anything— until I burned them all, the fire kissed their bones, and the sky turned black just for me.
And God? God watched with me.
Monteil? Oh, sweetheart—it's not a name anymore. It's a warning, and every drop of fear it spills— mine.
Tonight, I sit beneath chandeliers I had custom-built to match the bones we never bothered to bury. I'm in a dress the color of red—blood left to dry, heels sharp enough to kill. My people watch me like I might slit their throats just for blinking.
And maybe I would. I don't like being bored.
"Talk," I say, lazy and low, not bothering to look his way. I don't need to. Kade's there. He always is. Silent, waiting, like a shadow with a heartbeat. Close enough to kill, close enough to catch me if I fall. Same thing, really.
He steps forward into the light, coat still wet from rain, jaw like a blade, voice made of gravel and loyalty.
"There's been movement in the Eastside docks," he says. "There's a man." I swirl the wine in my glass. "There are a lot of men." "This one stood out. Doesn't talk much. Doesn't take bribes. Won't look twice at the girls we sent to sniff him out."
I raise a brow. "And?"
"He's not one of ours. Not anyone's. Name came through a wiretap." "Who is he?" I ask, intrigued.
Kade doesn't answer right away. The silence drags, heavy enough to notice. Then—
"Nico Sloane."
I repeat the name under my breath. It doesn't belong in my world. Not yet. But something sharp shifts in my chest, low and unwelcome.
Not fear.
Not curiosity.
Something worse.
I lean back in my chair, nails tapping glass like a countdown.
And I smile.
"Let him come closer," I whisper.
"I want to see what kind of man walks into hell... and doesn't burn."