ZYLA

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The blood on my skin is still warm, sticky, and very real.

I can’t stop staring at my hands. They are trembling.

A man has just died. Again.

Two more men.

Tarin’s voice cuts through the air like ice. “Clean this up. Burn the remains. Strip him of everything that touched her.”

Guards flood in, moving like shadows. Silent and efficient.

Like they know the script. Like this isn’t the first time.

He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t touch me. His jaw is tight. Hands fisted. Eyes dead.

And I… I just stand here.

That man had laughed before dying. Now he is a corpse on the marble floor.

In the same room where a bullet crashed through a window.

Where the air still smells like metal and smoke.

Tarin speaks again, “Let’s go, Fiore.”

That name. His voice. The cold in both touches me and curls into my skin.

I follow because I don’t know what else to do.

Because if I stay any longer, I’ll start screaming and not stop.

They call him Principe.

Not Tarino. Not Ferretti.

Principe.

A title. Like royalty.

Like something you aren’t allowed to touch unless you are ready to burn.

And yes, I’ve always known he is dangerous.

But this… This is the kind of danger that doesn’t scream or snarl.

It orders men with guns. It stands over corpses and doesn’t blink.

I thought he was the storm. But he is the eye.

This world… This world is the hurricane.

My feet move heavily.

I had never broken a rule in my life. Not at school. Not at home. And definitely not with men like him.

My life used to be predictable. Innocent. My worst days were missing a deadline or getting a bad grade.

Now?

Now, I am drenched in blood that isn’t mine.

My phone is gone. My future is uncertain. My brother… dead.

And the only person I have left… is the man who got him killed.

Zayden… Is this what you tried to keep me from?

Because now, I am drowning in it.

In blood. In secrets. In him.

We pass a mirror on the way out. I pause.

She looks back at me… The girl with blood splattered across her collarbones and wide, hollow eyes. Lips too pale. Shoulders too stiff.

I don’t recognize her.

My brother used to tease me for hogging the mirror. "You checking to see if your halo’s still on, princess?" He would say.

Now, I can’t even find the girl he meant.

I blink. And in that blink, I see Zayden.

Not alive. Not smiling. Just a memory lowered six feet into the ground.

I turn away from the mirror, swallow hard, and follow the man who’s destroyed everything I knew.

~~~

Tarino

She hasn’t said a word since we got in the car. Not that I blame her.

I want to offer her my jacket. My voice. My hand. But what good would any of that do?

My hands have done worse than pull a trigger.

She sits curled into herself, fingers locked, eyes staring at nothing.

I know that stare.

I wore it at thirteen, after my first kill.

After my father's punishment for hesitating...

The same night my mother locked herself in her room and cried until morning.

The woman beside me doesn’t belong in this world. Not with blood on her dress and fear on her tongue.

Not her. Not Fiore.

I search in the glove compartment for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, needing the fire in my lungs more than air.

With shaking hands, I light a stick and bring it to my lips.

The smoke grounds me. Bites at my lungs. Makes me remember I am still human… Barely.

Leather creaks under my gloves as I shift the steering wheel.

Memories pull at me like hands through the dark.

My father’s voice barking orders. My mother’s muffled sobs through thick wooden doors. The smell of gunpowder in the training yard. The bone-deep ache in my arms as I learned to hold a pistol before I learned to ride a bicycle.

There's this part of me. This part I try to drown under suits and silence.

I’m twenty-six.

But some days…

Some days, I feel like I’ve lived a thousand violent lifetimes.

And then there’s her.

Zyla.

A memory from the past swims into my head.

Young Zyla, sixteen, racing barefoot through the Rosewood garden. Hair wild, laughter sharp and bright, chasing butterflies with ink-stained fingers and scraped knees.

She’d always been Zayden’s baby sister—off-limits to me, even then—a little chaos wrapped in warmth.

And now…

Blood on her. But still soft. Still sweet.

The black waves of her hair frame her face, matted slightly at the edges where some blood has dried.

Her hazel eyes are gorgeous yet dazed from the night.

She looks like something fragile in the hands of a monster.

The image of that sick fuck’s gun against her head flashes in my head.

A vein in my neck pulses.

If that bullet had landed, I wouldn’t have stopped until I made the whole damn world bleed for it.

Tension rises in my throat. So I inhale the cigar and puff out a thick cloud of smoke.

But this causes Zyla to cough.

I turn sharply.

“Are you okay?”

She blinks, surprised, then coughs again.

Shit.

I drop the cigarette instantly, crush it beneath my heel, and roll the window down to let the smoke out.

Then I turn to her with the same question.

She gives a small nod.

I let out a breath of relief.

She has no idea what she’s doing to me. No idea what it means that I dropped my gun to save her. Or that my father—cold, steel-hearted bastard—would see that as my greatest sin yet.

I don’t care. Not anymore.

“We’re not going back to the other place,” I say, my voice low. “It’s compromised.”

She looks at me.

I look away.

We turn down a cobbled road lined with tall trees and statues, as the iron gates of one of my estates open silently before us.

~~~

Zyla

I have never seen a house this dark and beautiful.

The mansion rises like something ancient and cursed. All sharp lines and cold elegance. Wrought-iron railings. (Add more )

It looks like it belongs to a man who has no soul.

I don’t ask if it’s his.

Of course it is.

He steps out first, then comes around to open my door.

“This place is on lockdown. My men are everywhere,” he says as I get down. “No one gets in or out. Not without me.”

I swallow hard.

Protected or prisoner? I’m not sure what I am anymore.

As we walk inside, I glance at the wide staircase. The velvet chairs. The empty space that echoes.

And for one selfish second…

I imagine more.

Sunlight spilling through these windows. White curtains dancing in the wind. Colorful books stacked high. Cherry piano music playing softly in the background. Laughter. Children.

A home.

I glance at Tarin, and for the stupidest second, I picture him in it.

A sharp wave of heat and tingles blooms under my skin, ears turning red-hot as my eyes meet his.

Surely he doesn't see me that way?

His eyebrows lift. “You’re burning up. You may catch a fever.”

My cheeks burn hotter, the cause far from any fever. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” His tone shifts with a thread of panic. “You need to wash off the blood. Now.”

He doesn’t wait. He just gently grabs my hand in his and pulls me.

I follow him down a long hall into a private bathroom, away from the other areas of the house.

The bathroom makes my jaw drop.

Carved marble. Dark granite counters. A sunken tub that looks like it belongs in a Roman palace. Gold fixtures. Dim golden lights flickering like candlelight.

It feels like stepping into a secret. A beautiful secret.

When I expect him to leave, he doesn't.

Instead, he steps inside. And shuts the door behind him.

The lock clicks into place.

My heart does, too.

“You… You can go now,” I whisper.

But Tarin doesn't reply.

He walks toward me, slowly… certainly.

The air thickens. Is he going to hurt me?

His voice, when it comes… Hot damn, it is deep. Rough. Like gravel and honey.

“I’m going to wash you, Zyla.”

My breath catches, and I realize he wouldn't hurt me.

Still, I feel my face turning red again. “You don’t have to—”

But he is already taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. Muscular forearms flexing. Veins running down them like ropes.

He looks like patience personified. Like he has all the time in the world to undress me… slowly.

I step back. Hit the counter. Heat runs from my chest to somewhere between my thighs.

Then—

“Zyla.” His voice dips lower. A command.

“Clothes off. Now.”