You know, Shakespeare once said "Hell is empty, and all the devils are here."
I'm not even a Shakespeare fan—can't stand all that thee and thou crap. But hey, I feel the man.
I'm Aliana Rivera. Adopted daughter of James Rivera—yeah, that James Rivera. The man who built one of the most feared mafia empires in all of Europe. When you're the king's daughter in a world built on blood and betrayal, you don't get the luxury of innocence. You sleep with one eye open, trust no one, keep a blade under your pillow, and learn to read silence like scripture.
A hundred rules. A thousand expectations. And every single one drilled into me like bullets to bone.
I learned to shoot a gun at thirteen.
I know a hundred ways—no, a hundred and three—to kill a man without even raising my voice. And yes, I learned them all. My father made sure of it.
No siblings. Just me. I don't think he had the energy to protect more than one weakness at a time. And make no mistake, I was his weakness.
But I loved him. Still do.
If I hadn't been adopted, maybe I'd sleep a little easier. Maybe I'd believe the blood in my veins came with loyalty and not obligation.
But then again—why complain?
I like what I am.
I like knowing that someone could be laughing in one breath and choking on it in the next—because of me. Blood pouring from places they didn't know could bleed.
Psychopathic? Maybe.
But in the mafia?
Normal is just another word for dead.
Just as I was about to enjoy the sweet silence of my own madness, a sharp knock echoed through my room like an unwanted reminder that peace, like loyalty in this house, was fleeting.
"Miss Rivera," a voice called out. Crisp. Polished. British. Only one person in this house could sound like a royal but still scare off hired killers with just a look.
Sebastian.
My father's personal butler, shadow, human lie detector, and possibly immortal—if we're being honest. The man had been here since forever. Like, before-I-was-born forever.
"Come in," I called, pulling myself from the edge of my spiraling thoughts.
The door creaked open and in stepped Sebastian in his signature all-black suit, not a wrinkle or speck of dust on him, like he was sewn into the fabric of the mansion itself. His silver hair was slicked back with surgical precision, and his eyes—those eyes—glowed a little too bright. Golden. Not hazel, not amber. Straight-up, wild-animal-in-the-dark golden.
I squinted. "New contacts, Seb?"
He raised a perfectly arched brow. "Pardon?"
"Your eyes. They're kinda… glowing. Either you've decided to cosplay a Bond villain, or we're having a Twilight moment."
Sebastian didn't even flinch. "Ah. Must be the lighting, Miss Rivera."
Yeah. Sure. The lighting. Inside my room with blackout curtains drawn.
"I'm here to remind you," he continued, smooth as ever, "that your father expects you at dinner tonight. He specifically requested your presence."
"Of course he did," I muttered, standing up and stretching like a lazy lioness who knew she had to perform in the circus again. "Does this dinner come with passive-aggressive threats and veiled insults, or are we doing full-blown mafia opera tonight?"
"Given the guests arriving," Sebastian said, voice still annoyingly pleasant, "I'd wager on a bit of both."
"Joy." I walked to my closet, flipping through my collection of emotionally appropriate black outfits. "So is this a dress-up-your-trauma dinner or more of a keep-your-gun-holstered-until-dessert situation?"
"I'd advise the former. There will be extended family in attendance."
"Ah, leeches and backstabbers. My favorite kind of people."
Sebastian didn't respond. He just stood there like he always did—quiet, composed, and faintly terrifying. Seriously, the man blinked once every hour. I sometimes wondered if he even was human. I mean, the guy moved like a shadow and once carried me through an entire mansion fire without breaking a sweat. Super weird.
And those glowing eyes? Not normal. Definitely not a contact lens thing. But whatever. I had bigger issues.
Like surviving this damn dinner.
"So what's on the menu?" I asked, slipping into a sleek black dress with a thigh-high slit and some unnecessary vengeance. "Betrayal? Disappointment? Undercooked morality?"
"Steak," he replied, adjusting my necklace with his white-gloved hand. "With a side of unresolved tension."
"Yum."
Sebastian straightened and gave me a once-over. "Try not to kill anyone, Miss Rivera."
"No promises."
As I grabbed my heels and started toward the door, Sebastian stepped in front of me. "Also," he said softly, those strange golden eyes locked on mine, "be careful tonight. Things are… shifting."
I paused. "Shifting?"
"Power, Miss. Old things rising. New things are moving. And you," he said, voice dropping to something deeper, something that crawled under my skin, "are at the center of it all."
The room felt colder suddenly.
I narrowed my eyes. "Sebastian… you good?"
"Of course," he said, smiling like he hadn't just dropped some cryptic prophecy in my lap. "Dinner is at seven. Don't be late."
He turned on his heel and glided out of the room, not walked—glided, like he was floating across marble.
I stared at the door long after he'd gone.
What the hell was that?
Shifting? Center of it all? And what did he mean by old things rising? Was this another mafia code phrase for a turf war, or was Sebastian finally losing his damn mind?
Whatever it was, I didn't like the way his words stuck to my skin like a warning. Or the fact that his eyes glowed in the dark like some predator from a nature documentary.
"Girl, if you start turning into a werewolf tonight," I muttered to myself, "I swear I better get claws, fangs, and a sexy power-up montage."
I grabbed my phone, texted faye "If I die tonight, avenge me dramatically", and headed downstairs with all the grace of a girl ready to burn a dinner table to ash.
Let the bloodbath begin.