I haven't failed a single mission since I started working under Uncle Alessandro—twelve years ago, when I was fifteen—until tonight.
Of course, my first failed hit is the one that mattered most.
I sit silent in the backseat as the black car threads through the villa gates. The leather interior smells new, but the scent is overwhelming. I crinkle my nose in distaste as I look outside, the Marchesi crest glaring at me from our sign.
My hands are folded so I don't twist them in frustration. I replay the rooftop on loop—the rain, the smell of cigarettes that clung to him, the way Lucius's eyes found mine as if he'd been waiting there for me.
They lied to me. Someone fed him my schedule. Someone let him be where he shouldn't have been.
That should be enough to get me off the hook, but my uncle is not a reasonable man. He is a lever and a ledger. He balances loss on other people's throats and calls it 'management.' If I don't produce blood that buys him leverage, he will mark my failure as a lesson for the rest of the family and move on.
The car eases to a stop, and Rocco opens the door with mechanical courtesy. He won't look at me; loyal men know better than to make eye contact with the Marchesi heiress.
When I enter, the family room smells of coffee, and the atmosphere is heavy. Alessandro sits at the head of the long table, his presence suffocating and vile. Giancarlo—my grandfather—sits quietly beside him, unmoving, like the useless, decorative relic he is.
"Ophelia," Alessandro says without upturning his cup. His voice is neutral—that's when I know my fate is sealed. It's when he's calm that his rage burns the hottest.
I enter the room and let the rain drip from my sleeves and hair onto the marble floor. "There were complications."
Dante snorts. "Translation?"
My cousin—Alessandro's golden boy—sits sprawled like the world belongs to him. He's never lifted a finger, but Alessandro dotes on him and ignores his (many) shortcomings.
"You missed," he scoffs after a moment, grinning with pointed teeth, glaring down his nose at me. He likes that word. 'Miss.'
It insinuates my ineptitude is the cause rather than sabotage.
Sofia hides her smile behind a porcelain cup. She's beautiful enough to have come straight from a painting, but deceptively vile beneath the surface. Their sibling likeness definitely shows through their ugly personalities—If Dante mocks me to my face, Sofia poisons behind my back.
"It's a shame," she murmurs. "You've always been the reliable one."
I set my hands flat on the table, feel the wood grain, and let the silence do the work of an accusation. "I didn't miss. I didn't get the shot in the first place. Lucius was on the rooftop. He wasn't supposed to be there."
Alessandro's eyes finally lift. They're narrow and calculating as he looks at me. "He was on the rooftop." He says it like a fact, not a question.
"Yes." My voice is steady. "He should not have been. I was not informed of any change in our plan, and it's impossible to swiftly and silently assassinate a man who isn't where he should be."
Dante leans forward, his interest sharpening. "So someone fed him information." He grins. "Who are you blaming?"
I have several ideas of who the traitors could be, and I could say it to them. I could point three fingers into the air and name the culprits I suspect — but I have no proof yet, and accusation without proof in this house gets you a seat in a cellar and a confession you don't remember.
Instead, I tell a partial truth. "I don't know who, but someone lied."
Alessandro chuckles, a small sound like ice scraping crystal. "Of course someone lied, Ophelia. In a Family like ours, people do worse things than lie. What matters is the outcome."
I feel Giancarlo's eyes on me—pity that leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. His pity became useless to me the moment I realized he felt sorry, but never enough to help. Even if he doesn't have the power, he could have tried to stand up for me—but he never has. Not now, not ever.
"You are uninjured," my grandfather says, as if physical injury absolves treachery.
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth. "Nothing permanent."
Alessandro taps the table once, a measured sound. "Then there's a practical solution." He folds his hands. "We lost our asset on the east dock last night."
A ripple goes through the room. Sofia's fingers tighten around her coffee cup, and Dante's amusement halts at the edge.
"The puppet?" I ask. My voice comes out small when he breaks the news, a thousand thoughts rushing through my mind all at once.
"The puppet," Alessandro agrees. "Found dead on the annex roof. Shot through the throat. Message work." He leans back like a man satisfied with a calculation. "Convenient for us, inconvenient for me."
Convenient? I remember the pathetic creature, the way the man had worn the role of fake don willingly—accepting abuse because it kept the real hand clean. He was only a mask created to hide my uncle from view, but the family had built him with useful hands. With that mask gone, the floor is now open to all kinds of drama and power plays.
Most importantly, however, is the fact that he was killed on the annex roof, the building where I had been only an hour ago.
"You're saying Lucius killed him?" I ask because the thought makes my stomach drop to the floor. Was I not the target? What was the puppet doing there in the first place?
There was even more shit starting to make no sense!
"We do not care who laid the bullet," Alessandro says slowly. "We care that our 'boss' is now shot. That news will rile the Ravelle's people, lulling them into a false sense of security. It is leverage, but it will also sharpen their focus on future attempts to sabotage our Family." His gaze finds me and slices through my chest. "Unfortunately, your presence on the roof will look like complicity to anyone inclined to read the tea leaves."
The room leans in on that theory. Dante smirks like a predator watching a smaller animal struggle. Sofia's eyes, by contrast, are cool and calculating—she's looking for weaknesses to exploit.
"You will be punished for failure," Alessandro continues, "but we are not oblivious to the opportunity your misstep has opened for us. You played your part tonight, you lured eyes and got attention." He lets that sink in, a devious smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
I clench my jaw, already sensing where this is going. "If you think—"
He holds up his hand, the gesture stopping more than my words. "We need a cleaner ending. If we can't prove sabotage, we can produce success. If you cannot exit this stage with Lucius dead on the floor, make him fall in another way." He smiles with no warmth. "Seduce him."
Silence.
Dante laughs out loud. "She'll do it easily! It's the only thing she's good for, apparently. All she has to do is give him a Marchesi nuzzle and then—boom." He winks, amused.
"It isn't a joke," Alessandro says, only lightly chastising his son's impudence. "We will not throw the house away on superstition. You will be useful. You will get close. You will make him trust you. You will bring us his schedule, his weaknesses, and his exits. You will let him sleep in our bed—metaphorically or otherwise—and then we will decide the rest."
My throat tightens. Seduce him. Use my body as a weapon. The word leaves a sour taste in my mouth. It isn't the first time I've had to play the part of seductress for a mission, but it's no less degrading.
"What if I refuse?" I ask thinly.
Refusal in this house is not an argument. It is an accounting error. Alessandro's smile thins to a straight line.
"I would prefer obedience," he says. "But we are not sentimental. If you refuse, Dante will step in, and the lesson will be harsher. If you succeed, your failure tonight becomes a footnote." He taps the table idly, not bothering to look me in the eyes. "And if you betray me, the consequences will be instructive."
A guard knocks lightly at the door, and Rocco steps in—my shadow, my leash. Alessandro turns the conversation like a coin and drops it into Rocco's palm: "You will shadow her. You will report every movement. You will ensure she is useful and not sentimental. Make sure she understands the price of indulgence."
Rocco bows, his jaw set firmly. He will be my eyes and the blunt end of their patience. I meet his gaze for a heartbeat, and he nods once — the slight motion of a man agreeing to play watch while someone else is given rope.
"Naturally." I force a smile. "When do I start?"
Alessandro's hands fold, the soft patter of rain audible beyond the windows. "Immediately," he says. "There's a gala at the Moreau tower in three nights. You will attend as a Marchesi ornament. You will be seen with him. You will take the steps of an obedient heiress, and you will bring us information."
Dante cheers softly like a boy at a show. "Go on, then. Prepare to climb into the enemy's bed, dearest cousin. Hopefully, he at least gives good head."
I want to spit at him. I want to slam that grin into the table and watch his broken jaw bleed. Instead, I ignore him and bow my head to my uncle, the motion slow and controlled. "I understand."
When I rise to leave, Alessandro's voice catches me, his tone commanding enough to stop me. "One more thing." He looks at me pointedly. "If this goes poorly again—if you fail to turn advantage into victory—remember that your usefulness has limits. People who are useless become lessons for others."
I nod again before slipping through the door. I walk past the portraits of Marchesis, irritated by their lifeless stares. I walk down a corridor lined with inlaid wood, the lacquer a glossy finish.
Everything about this place is a gross display of overindulgence. I glance out the hall's long window with an indifferent expression. Outside, the gentle storm has become more substantial, water pooling on the ground with the city's glow reflected on the surface of the puddles.
On the balcony, one of the younger servants has left a shawl on the stone. I wrap it around my shoulders, longing for a warmth that won't come as I look out over the city.
I should be furious. I should be planning how to expose the person who lied and calling them out, forcing them to confess.
Instead, my throat is full of words that are not mine. I feel a raw, unfamiliar tug of something else—a taste of the rooftop and his hand at my wrist, his gun at my ribs, his thumb on the bruise he left—and a tiny, traitorous seed of curiosity.
Alessandro wants me to go to Lucius Ravelle's tower as bait. The family thinks they gave me rails, but they don't know the half of it. For my part, however, I will treat the event as a stage. I will provide them with what they need—but I will also look for evidence of their lies.
Whoever fucked me over is bound to try something else, and if I can't find proof, I will make my own leverage.
…And if by some stroke of luck, the wine and glitter give me a chance to show Lucius what I am—perhaps I can turn the trap into a weapon of my own.
I walk back inside with my shoulders straight and purpose in my stride. The family thinks I am theirs tonight, but they will find out soon enough that the disgusting man I call an uncle raised me to be equally revolting.