I felt a shiver of unease as the name Obsidian lingered in my mind. Even though I had every luxury a girl could ever want—clothes, jewelry, handbags, shoes that cost more than most people earned in a lifetime, and the devoted service of the powerful children of wealthy families—I couldn't shake this strange discomfort. Something about the name gnawed at me.
I remembered hearing it whispered in Don Giorgio's mansion: the Obsidian Head. They weren't just a Mafia group; they were the most feared underworld faction on the planet. Influential businessmen bowed to them, seeking protection or favor. And yet, here I was, surrounded by unimaginable wealth, unable to explain why the mere mention of that name made my skin crawl.
I wandered past the neatly displayed rows of designer brands, each item gleaming behind polished glass. Jewelry, handbags, shoes—everything cost millions, yet Luciano had purchased it for me without hesitation. I couldn't help but wonder: what was his motive? Why lavish me with these treasures as if I were a prize?
By the time I finished wandering, it was already two in the afternoon. Exhaustion weighed me down. I decided a long bath and a nap were the only remedies for my restless thoughts.
"Do you want me to heat the water for you?" Arielle asked.
"No, I can manage it myself. Thank you," I replied with a faint smile.
"It's nothing. It's my job to make sure you're comfortable," she said, smiling back.
"I'll be right here if you need anything," she added, and I nodded silently.
Once inside the bathroom, I stripped off my clothes and stepped into the tub, letting the warm water swirl around me. The luxurious soap Arielle had chosen left my skin smooth and fragrant. When I finally stepped out, wrapped in a soft towel, I realized Arielle had left.
And then I saw him.
Luciano was sitting on the edge of the bed, half-naked—his shirt gone, but his trousers still clinging to his hips. Water droplets glistened on his sculpted chest, highlighting the faint scars that gave him a dangerous, almost predatory allure. His wet black hair fell carelessly across his face, dark strands sticking to his temples. The dim light of the room caught the sheen of his skin, and his presence radiated a magnetic intensity, like the air itself bent toward him.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, summoning every ounce of courage I had.
"Should I have a reason?" His tone was low, edged with amusement. A faint smirk tugged at his lips, but his eyes never left mine.
"Why are you… undressed?" I asked, a twinge of curiosity—and fear—rising in me. I prayed he hadn't come here with the same intentions he always seemed to carry.
"I want to take my bath," he said, his gaze still fixed on me, unreadable and unyielding.
"B-But—" I stammered.
"But what?" His voice cut sharply through the air, dropping into a threatening, husky whisper. "This is my room. My house. Everything in this place belongs to me—including you. So stop questioning me." His eyes narrowed, and the words carried a claim, a warning, and a raw power I couldn't ignore.
He passed by me and entered the bathroom. My legs betrayed me, and I stumbled back, desperate to avoid him. My gaze wandered down the corridor, seeking an escape. That's when I saw it: a door slightly ajar, inviting me to peek inside.
I entered and found a room unlike any I had ever seen—a room that seemed to devour the light around it and bend it into something regal and terrifying. The walls were polished obsidian, so black they reflected my own wide-eyed astonishment like dark mirrors. The floor shimmered under the golden glow of crystal chandeliers, reflecting light in a way that made the room feel infinite. Even the bed sheets gleamed with a deep, seductive black silk. Every surface exuded dominance, wealth, and a haunting elegance, a stark contrast to the rest of the mansion's white-and-gold opulence.
I found myself drawn to a half-burnt photograph on the bedside table. A small boy with dark hair and brown eyes smiled from the picture, and I knew instinctively it was Luciano as a child. The other two faces were charred beyond recognition, yet I could still make out a man and a woman—his parents, perhaps. Questions pressed against the edges of my mind: why were they burned? What happened to them? Why keep this room—and this memory—hidden?
Suddenly, a sharp voice cut through my reverie.
"What the hell are you doing here?!" Luciano's eyes twitched, the faintest frown deepening into pure, smoldering anger. It was a look that sent chills down my spine, made my knees weak, and made my heart pound like a frantic drum.
"I-I-I was just s-staring…" I stammered, words tumbling out in a rush, "…l-looking at…" I couldn't finish.
He stepped into the room, and my gaze couldn't help but follow him. Luciano was dripping wet, his hair plastered to his face, water tracing down his sculpted shoulders and chest. His trousers clung to him, outlining every line of his body, while the designer shirt he had casually tossed on after his bath hung open, its fabric whispering of wealth and power. Even in casual clothing, he exuded danger, sensuality, and absolute authority. Every movement radiated controlled fury.
"Get out ," he said, voice low and dangerous, "stop poking your nose in every single room in this mansion." His eyes bore into mine, and I felt the weight of that statement crush every doubt I had tried to cling to.
And yet… even as fear rooted me to the spot, my curiosity about him, about the boy in the photo, about the people whose faces were burned, refused to fade.
I returned to my room and sank onto the bed, my mind restless with thoughts of Luciano.
At the same time, a burning curiosity gnawed at me—who were the people in that photograph, and what secrets did he hide? There were so many things I w
anted to understand about him, I shouldn't.