I am going to die of boredom.
People are milling about, the clink of champagne glasses mingling with soft classical music. The overwhelming scent of sweet perfume clings to every corner of the grandiose ballroom like a suffocating cloud.
The venue is magnificent, set in a museum exhibition room with gleaming hardwood floors, chandeliers and faux fireplaces. There are hundreds of people and my chest constricts in anxiety. I’ve never liked crowded spaces, nor extravagant parties such as this one.
Awkwardly walking around, I am trying to fit in even though I know that I must be standing out like a sore thumb.
‘You will never fit in—you will always be the whore your mother was.’
I flinch at the memory of Daria’s voice, sharp as glass. I was fourteen when she hissed those words at me, punishment for some crime I can’t even remember.
Oh, right. Just existing. That was crime enough in her eyes.
Being the daughter of her husband’s mistress? That was the real sin.
In our world, men with mistresses are a fact of life. A dirty secret we all politely ignore. It hadn’t shocked anyone when my father, an old-money patriarch through and through, kept one tucked away.
But it had shocked Daria when that mistress fell pregnant shortly after she did. I was born barely months after Chiara, Daria’s precious daughter, her pride and joy.
Father set us up in a house somewhere quiet. He never visited. Women like my mother don’t have voices. They don’t have power. In our world, women are either wives traded for influence or they are playthings—hidden, forgotten, and discarded when they are no longer useful.
When my mother died unexpectedly, I wasn’t forgotten anymore. Father brought me to his house like a stray dog dragged in from the rain. From that moment on, I was the outsider, enduring Father’s cold indifference and Daria’s contempt. But I kept my head down. I went to the same schools as Chiara not because they cared, but because it looked better that way.
Then I dared to dream. When I told them I wanted to go to university to study veterinary medicine, they looked at me like I’d grown two heads.
Why study when I could marry rich? Why work, when I could have the perfect life handed to me?
They threatened to cut me off. And they did. But I went anyway. I worked night shifts and took odd jobs. I also took out student loans I’m still paying off. I clawed my way to a degree and landed a job in a small clinic. Nothing glamorous, but it is mine. My world, my life, and I love it.
Unfortunately, it also means I have had to move back in with Father to make ends meet while I pay down that mountain of debt. Which means enduring these events again. Smiling, wearing the right dress, being paraded around like a proper daughter, worthy of his bloodline.
It’s exhausting, but I endure. I endure for my future, one far away from these people and their poison. One where I am not a pawn or a bargaining chip.
The only constant keeping me sane is Chiara.
She is nothing like her mother, or father, for that matter. I don’t know how she turned out so kind, but I’ve been grateful for her since the day I arrived, scared and grieving. We were raised side-by-side and nothing, not even years apart while I studied, could change the bond we share.
Speaking of Chiara… I glance around the room, scanning the crowd.
Where is she?
I’ve scanned the room one more time when my phone starts ringing in my purse. I fish it out. Mira’s name flashes across the screen. My colleague and friend at the clinic.
I press the green button, already retreating toward a quieter corner of the ballroom. Surely there must be a hallway or side room somewhere. I can’t hear a thing in this noise.
“Hi, Mira, is everything okay?”
“Lily!” Her voice is tight, distracted. “I need to take next week off. Can you take on my patients for the next few days? I know it’s sudden but…” She trails off.
“It’s okay,” I say softly, picking up the panic in her voice. “What’s going on? Wait…is it your grandma?”
A cold spike of dread climbs up my spine. Mira adores her grandmother, who lives in Plymouth. She had been sick last week, but Mira insisted it was nothing more than a cold.
I frown. There is too much noise in the background. I duck out of the ballroom entirely, my heels clicking sharply as I make my way down a dim hallway in search of a quiet space.
Mira’s voice breaks. “Yeah, she isn’t getting better and I need to go to be with her for the medical exams she will be going through. I don’t know what I'll do if she…” Her sob breaks my heart.
“I’ve got you,” I reassure her. “Take all the time you need. I’ll cover your patients.”
“Thank you, Lily.” She exhales with relief. “You’re an angel. I’m leaving tomorrow morning, I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
Aha, there! A door on the right is ajar and I slip in, turning to quietly close it.
“No worries. Please keep me updated, okay?”
“I will. Thanks again. Bye.”
“Bye,” I murmur as the line goes dead. A sigh escapes me, heavy with concern for my friend. But beneath it a flicker of guilty satisfaction warms my chest. I’ve found the perfect hiding spot—quiet, away from the noise and the people. The call may be over, but I’m not stepping back out there anytime soon. Not if I can help it. I slip the phone back into my purse and turn to rest my back against the door—and that’s when I see…
It.
Them.
Him.
No…it. The bloodbath.
There’s blood. So much blood.
A man is slumped on the floor, his body twisted at an unnatural angle. Another man is standing over him, a bloody knife in hand. Beside him stands another figure with his arms crossed.
They are both staring at me with dismay, as if they can’t believe their eyes.
For a heartbeat, no one moves.
Then, after a second of shock, adrenaline courses through me and I mumble, “Sorry, wrong door,” and bolt out of the room and down the hallway. I run as fast as I can with my heels and my dress hindering my legs.
But I am not far down the hall when strong hands catch my arm mid-sprint and yank me back toward the room. I want to fight, to scream, to scratch, but all I can do is let out a pitiful whimper, my fight-or-flight instincts frozen from terror.
Man Number Two drags me back like a rag doll, shoves me inside the room and slams the door shut behind us. He leans on it, cutting off my only escape.
My heart is frantically trying to leap out of my throat, and my breath comes out in shallow bursts.
I turn to face the man who was holding the knife, stomach clenching from fear.
But he is gone.
I hear the distant splash of water. It stops after a few seconds and he comes out of an adjoining room, wiping off his still damp hands on a towel he then carelessly throws on the floor next to the slumped figure.
He shrugs off his jacket and casually drapes it over the body, hiding the gore. Then he looks at me…and my heart stops.
I know that face.
Damiano Santaluccia.
The Damiano Santaluccia. Il Demonio, the Devil.
The head of the Boston mafia.
The most powerful man in our world, in this city.
Of all the rooms I could have walked into tonight, I had to choose the one hiding a murder. And him, knife in hand, poised over a dead body.
Shit. I’ve just witnessed a murder.
I am going to die tonight.
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