Sinners

The Moretti mansion has always been quiet. But this silence? The kind where even a feather might echo.

Her heels clinked against the marble as she moved from room to room, scanning the house in silence.

She hadn’t cried, not once, for Victor.

Victor, her late husband, had been sixty-three when they married. She was only twenty-one. A deal made between men—no love.

She’d taught herself to care for Victor. Yet, it was never enough to care if he died.

She passed the staircase, unmoved by the staff bowing their heads a little too low in performative grief.

Her gaze swept each corner until she reached the study door, left ajar.

The study was dim, books were slightly out of place, and one man, far too at ease, sat comfortably on Victor’s chair.

He didn’t stand when he saw her.

He didn’t even pretend to be startled.

Even in the dim light, Mara recognized him instantly.

Nikolai Vescari.

The man Victor treated like a son. The man Mara had never trusted.

She stepped into the study.

He leaned back into the leather chair with an arrogance money couldn’t buy, legs sprawled across the desk as the swivel creaked beneath him—a blatant show of disrespect to the wife of the man who once called him his protégé.

Nikolai’s gaze flicked up.

A smirk tugged at his mouth, his eyes untouched by it.

“I was starting to think you wouldn’t come,” he said, voice low. “Isn’t it a bit too early?” He paused, then chuckled. “Almost like you were lurking…waiting for the news.”

She didn’t answer.

Mara shut the door gently behind her and crossed to Victor’s desk.

His eyes roamed over her with no shame.

“Again, isn’t it too early?” His gaze lingered, this time, on her bare fingers. “Not surprised, though. The man was old.”

Mara didn’t waver. “You’re in his seat.”

He glanced down at the chair, feigning confusion. “Am I? I wasn’t told anyone owned the seat. Not even the dead… who I believe have no use of it.”

“You knew he hated that.”

“Your husband hated a lot of things. Dying, for one. But look, it happened anyway.”

She didn’t let herself react. Her gaze swept the room. Nothing much had changed—except him.

Victor had praised him endlessly. Mara had never seen it. Now, watching him sprawl in the seat like it was his, she finally understood why—just not in the way Victor meant.

“Why don’t we drink?” Nikolai slapped the desk as he stood. “To your return, of course,” he smirked. “Your husband should have some vintage wine stashed in one of his cabinets.”

“Victor considered you his favorite,” she said coolly.

He poured two glasses and handed her one. “He had good taste.”

“I doubt it. He had bad judgment in wine…” She swirled her glass slowly, her eyes never leaving him. “And in men.”

A slow smirk curved his lips.

“Harsh,” he mused, "but fair. I always did wonder what you thought of me.”

“I didn’t.”

“Even better.”

Nikolai set his glass down slowly on the desk. He leaned against the edge, studying her.

“You don’t look like you’ve been mourning.”

“You don’t look surprised he’s dead.” She returned.

“Let the dead bury the dead,” he said, smile widening. “The man was old. Had enemies. It was only a matter of time.”

Mara’s brow furrowed, but she said nothing.

“I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said with a lazy grin.

“Never said you did.” She replied coolly.

A pause.

Nikolai chuckled as he sank back into Victor’s chair. “Of course.”

He leaned back and traced the rim of his glass slowly.

Mara sniffed the air. Something foul lingered—not him, exactly, though he was certainly part of the stench.

“The old man peed on himself when he died,” Nikolai said, catching her glance at the carpet. “The maid tried to get the smell out. Guess it didn’t work. I thought you would pick up the smell, or maybe you’re just used to it.”

“I guess… I’m baffled how little his means nothing to you.”

“Where did I imply that?” He arched his brow. “You were his wife. I was just a student. You lost a husband; I lost a mentor. Want me to keep explaining why we mourn differently?”

“No, I’ve heard of a student who learned enough to be a slimy bastard.”

“I learned from the best.”

“You want his throne,” she observed.

Nikolai shrugged. “I’ve earned it.”

“You think he owed you that?”

“I think he promised it.” He said, his voice sharper now. “And he never broke a promise to me.”

Mara chuckled. She took a step forward. “Then let me make you one.”

Nikolai raised a brow, curious.

She leaned over the table, just enough to look him in the eye.

His gaze dripped with something between hunger and hatred.

Mara stepped back, her heels echoing. At the door, she paused and glanced over her shoulder.

“You’re not sitting there because you earned it, Vescari.” She said with a smile. “You’re sitting there because I haven’t decided what to do with you yet.”

Nikolai smirked and leaned back in the chair. “Then I hope you take your time, Signora Moretti. I’d hate for this little game to end before I've had my fun.”

“Mhm…likewise.”

She didn’t slam the door when she left.

She didn’t need to.

Whether Nikolai knows it or not.

The war had already begun.