A Glimpse of the Mafia's Daughter

“Faster, Luce. Where’s my coffee? You know my mercy depends on it.”

The girl strode swiftly across the marble floor, the sharp click of her crystal-based heels echoing through the vast corridor. Each step sounded deliberate—measured, confident, almost threatening. The heels themselves looked outrageously expensive, catching the cold light and scattering it like fractured diamonds. She pushed open the massive black marble doors to her office and walked in as if she owned the world.

Or maybe she did owned the world.

“In a few minutes, Miss Caylass,” came a voice from the shadows in the far corner—smooth, obedient, and not something she heard very often.

Caylass pursed her lips, irritation flickering across her sharp features. She shrugged off her leather jacket and let it slide from her shoulders. The weight concealed inside it revealed itself immediately—the hidden blades clattering onto the floor in a sharp, metallic protest.

“Hurry up. I’m not in the mood to kill anyone today, Luce,” she said casually.

Then her gaze dropped.

A blond, well-built man was tied up at the center of the room, sprawled against the cold marble floor. His breathing was steady despite his position, chest rising slowly beneath a torn shirt that revealed just enough of sculpted muscle to look intentional. He curled slightly on his side, as if conserving energy—or hiding something.

“Not really,” she murmured.

She crouched in front of him, heels steady, balance perfect. A ghost of a smirk tugged at her lips as she studied his face—too calm, too handsome for someone awaiting execution.

“Lucifer—hell’s sake—who’s this hot guy?” she mouthed silently toward the raven-masked figure standing motionless in the corner.

“He’s a cocky little brat who tried to take down the Boss by copying our product, Miss,” the raven-masked man replied.

Caylass hummed thoughtfully. She brushed a loose strand of blond hair from the man’s forehead, her fingers lingering just long enough to be unsettling. Then she lifted her hand without looking away—an unspoken command.

“Faster. Now.”

Lucifer quickly placed a heavy pistol into her palm.

She groaned, covering her face in frustration. “Not a gun. My coffee, for God’s sake.”

She bent forward with a long sigh, shoulders sagging just slightly. “I swear, I think I’m two seconds away from a mental breakdown.”

Her breath trembled—half exhaustion, half something dangerously close to despair.

Then came a low, amused chuckle.

It was rough. Hoarse. Unmistakably sexy.

Caylass blinked and snapped her gaze back to the blond man.

“You know,” he said, voice lazy and teasing, “usually girls offer me a drink after inviting me into their homes.”

“…I didn’t invite you. I kidnapped you,” she replied flatly. “Well—technically, Luce did.”

“Oh. I thought this was a date.”

His grin was criminally confident—the kind that belonged on a magazine cover curated exclusively for angels and sinners alike.

“Because I’m not pointing this thing at you?” Caylass twirled the gun in her hand.

He chuckled, entirely unfazed. “Guess I just have that kind of effect on women with weapons.”

Her brow arched slightly.

“Don’t worry,” she said coolly. “I don’t kill people unless they ask for it.”

“Good,” he replied smoothly. “I prefer conversations to bullets.”

She stood slowly, circling him, studying the way his muscles tensed beneath torn fabric. “So, how would you like to be killed, Mr. Counterfeiter?”

“I don’t know,” he said, smiling faintly. “Maybe in a way that lets me die happy?”

Caylass arched a brow. “Why are you flirting with me? Do you think I’ll feel sorry for you?”

“Oh, no. Clearly my life isn’t worth a cup of your morning coffee. I just like chatting with beautiful women. By the way—your dress was a little revealing earlier. Elegant choice, though.”

She glanced down at her black dress, which barely brushed her knees, then glared murderously.

“Do you want me to rip your eyes out?”

“Preferably not,” he chuckled. “I’d rather keep them. It’d be a sin to go blind before I can look at you a little longer.”

He said it so casually that heat flared behind her eyes.

“Lucifer,” Caylass snapped, turning sharply. “Make a note. Tell my father this insolent brat has a dangerously active mouth.”

“Make another note,” the blond man shot back instantly. “The young lady hasn’t had her coffee yet, which might explain the acidity.”

Lucifer made a strange sound behind his mask—possibly a stifled laugh.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Caylass muttered.

“A little,” Lucifer admitted.

“Yeah,” she said dryly. “So do I.”

In half a blink, the muzzle of her pistol pressed against the blond man’s forehead.

“I hate men who talk too much.”

“Funny,” he said, smiling up at her, “I hate women who make me want to keep talking.”

Caylass narrowed her eyes, then smirked. She leaned closer, invading his space deliberately, her gaze locking onto his.

“Careful. I’m not a patient woman. I could lose control.”

For a second, he blinked—just once—caught off guard by her closeness.

Then the smirk returned.

“If you stay this close,” he murmured, breath brushing her lips, “I might lose control first.”

Her grip tightened.

Then—

“Miss, your coffee is ready.”

Lucifer’s calm voice cut through the tension like a blade.

Moments later, servants entered with silver trays of coffee and pastries. The rich aroma filled the room. Lucifer inspected each cup carefully before presenting one to Caylass.

She rose, straightened her dress, and snatched the cup, turning away.

She didn’t see him move.

The blond man stood effortlessly. Light spilled through his disheveled white shirt, tracing the lean strength beneath. The ropes slid soundlessly to the floor like dead serpents.

In a single breath, he struck.

Something glinted.

Lucifer dropped the tray and fired—but too late.

The bullet embedded itself in the far wall as the blond man yanked Caylass back against him, arm locking around her throat.

Her cup shattered. Coffee bled across the marble tiles.

Servants screamed and fled.

The pistol was twisted from her hand and pressed beneath her jaw.

“I bet you’d rather I put my lips there than a barrel,” he murmured, voice low and taunting, “but apparently we’ve got communication issues.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Caylass hissed. “Lucifer—what are you waiting for? Hit him.”

Lucifer lowered his weapon.

Said nothing.

“Lucifer?” Her voice wavered. “Luce—do something!”

The blond man chuckled. “Oh, come on. You’re really going to wait for a dramatic reveal, Nyx?”

Lucifer tilted his head, then removed the raven mask.

Long ink-black hair spilled down, framing a face nearly identical to the blond man’s—only colder. Sharper.

His twin.

“Thanks,” he said mildly. “I almost got there before you ruined the moment.”

Caylass froze.

He wasn’t Lucifer.

“You two…” Her voice faltered. “The twin mafia brothers. Onyx and Gold.”

For the first time, fear cracked through her composure.

“What do you want from me?”

Gold smiled and pulled her closer.

“Your father’s power. His influence, his empire,” he whispered. “And maybe… a little chaos.”

Then the twins vanished—taking Caylass with them.