Alera pov
Rring------
The first bell of the semester rang like a shot in my chest, but I didn't flinch. I never flinch. Not for professors. Not for students. Not even for the whispers that followed me down the marble corridors of the Great University.
They call me beautiful. Dangerous. Ruthless. They don't know the half of it. I've spent my life building walls higher than any castle's, and every step I take is measured, precise, a dance of calculated poise. Confidence isn't something you stumble into-it's forged in fire, in hatred, in the unyielding knowledge that weakness is a luxury I can't afford.
Today, like every day, I wore my armor of silk and black leather, my hair perfectly in place, my eyes sharp enough to cut through pretense. Students tried to meet my gaze. Some out of curiosity. Others... out of fear. The latter is preferable. Fear makes people predictable. Curiosity is dangerous.
I passed the law building, where a cluster of second-year girls whispered and turned their heads as I walked past. Their fascination was almost amusing-almost. But I didn't slow my pace. I never slow. I am Alera Brake. Russian mafia. Heiress. A shadow of elegance and death wrapped in skin and bone.
In the lecture hall, I claimed my usual seat at the far back, angled perfectly to observe without being observed. I watched the world around me: petty rivalries, fleeting romances, the naïve energy of those who have no idea what real power looks like. I thought about my father-about the legacy I carry. One wrong step, one careless word, and everything I've built could crumble. That's the lesson the mafia teaches: trust is currency, and power... power is everything.
When the professor began speaking, his voice droned through the hall like a distant storm, but my mind wandered elsewhere. I thought about the arrangements that had begun to stir within our family circles. Alliances, mergers, marriages... chains disguised as opportunities. Soon enough, one of those chains would find me. I'd face it the way I face everything-with ice in my veins and fire in my eyes.
Because weakness is a sin. And I never, ever sin.
The lecture hall emptied, but the whispers never stopped. I could feel their eyes following me-the curious, the admiring, the envious. Some tried to approach. Most didn't last more than a few steps before my gaze sliced through their confidence like a blade.
"Hi... Alera?" a voice trembled from a cluster of second-year girls at the hallway corner. One of them had a notebook clutched like a shield, her lipstick smudged from nervousness.
I slowed just enough to let them think I noticed them. I tilted my head slightly, assessing-every expression, every twitch of their fingers.
"I... I just wanted to say... you're amazing. Like... really amazing," the tallest one stammered. Her voice quivered as if she expected me to smile, to compliment her back.
I didn't. I didn't even nod. Silence is more powerful than words. The energy in the hallway shifted instantly. They understood, in that heartbeat, that I didn't do friendliness, and I didn't do weakness.
Another tried, braver perhaps, or just reckless. "Maybe we could... study together sometime?"
I let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh. "I don't study with anyone," I said, my tone flat, final. My words weren't cruel-they didn't need to be. My reputation did the work for me.
The girls faltered, eyes wide, cheeks burning. One whispered under her breath, "She's... impossible."
Exactly. Impossible is how I survived. Impossible is how I thrived. Impossible is how I made sure no one could touch me, not here, not anywhere.
They lingered for a moment, hoping for a crack in my armor, a sign of humanity-but found nothing. I let them watch me disappear down the hall, heels clicking against the marble like the ticking of a metronome. Every step a warning: don't get close.
I passed the windows overlooking the campus gardens, watching the sunlight scatter across manicured lawns. Even in beauty, I found imperfection. People always underestimate the danger of elegance-they think it's fragile. They don't see the steel beneath.
I reached my usual secluded corner of the library, where no one dared follow. The chair hugged me like an old friend. I spread my books across the table, methodical, precise, as if preparing for a war that no one else could see.
Other students passed by, casting glances. Some whispered my name. A few dared to linger, hoping for a smile, a nod, a spark of connection. I gave them none. And in that denial, I ruled them more than any professor ever could.
Because I am Alera Brake. I don't belong to anyone. I answer to no one. And in this world of whispers, envy, and ambition, I am the storm everyone fears-but no one can touch.
---
I had barely set my bag down in my usual corner of the library when a trio of girls approached. Their synchronized steps were clumsy, but intentional. They were trying to look casual-innocent. I smelled desperation in the air, subtle, like perfume mixed with anxiety.
"Hey, Alera," the tallest began, forcing a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "We... um... we were thinking maybe we could sit together? Study together?"
I looked up slowly, fixing each of them with a gaze that was calm, yet sharp enough to make them falter. My eyes weren't cruel. They were precise. Calculated. I let the silence stretch, letting it weigh down on them.
"I don't study with anyone," I said finally, voice low, even, final. No inflection. Nothing to argue with.
The middle one stepped forward, biting her lip. "Oh! But, we thought maybe... we could... I mean, you're always so organized and-"
I cut her off with a single, flat observation. "Organization is not a social skill. I don't need friends to succeed."
They blinked, caught off guard. Their carefully rehearsed lines, their attempts at charm and flattery, dissolved in an instant. I could practically see the panic in their eyes, the way they calculated escape routes that didn't exist.
The smallest one, braver than the rest-or maybe foolish-smiled weakly. "Maybe... maybe we can help you? You know, with notes or assignments... we're really good at-"
I leaned back in my chair, letting the shadow of my posture communicate everything my words didn't: You are irrelevant to me. Do not waste my time.
"I don't need help. I don't need approval. And I certainly don't need companions," I said, my tone icy enough to cut through the library's silence.
The girls exchanged nervous glances. One whispered under her breath, "She's... impossible."
I let a small, almost imperceptible smirk brush my lips. Perfect. That's exactly the reputation I wanted. Impossible. Unapproachable. Untouchable. They would remember this-and think twice before attempting to meddle in my life again.
Finally, the tallest sighed, a mixture of frustration and awe. "Okay... fine. We just... thought we'd try."
I returned my attention to my notebook, pretending they no longer existed. Their footsteps faded, hesitant and careful, like mice retreating from a predator.
I let the silence stretch around me, savoring it. The world thought I was harsh, distant, unkind. They were right. I didn't smile for anyone. I didn't let anyone cross the invisible line. I didn't let anyone in.
Because every second I allowed them close, every weakness I displayed, was a crack in the armor of Alera Brake. And no one-not friends, not rivals, not even family-ever saw cracks in my armor.
I turned the page of my notebook. Words, strategies, calculations. Everything in my life was deliberate. Every step I took, every glance I gave, was controlled. And if someone tried to challenge that? They would learn, the hard way, why I am the storm that everyone fears.
I had barely settled into my usual corner of the library when a group of students approached, their steps hesitant but determined. I could smell the nervous energy of those who thought they could breach my defenses.
The first to speak was Marina, tall, blonde, always trying to appear confident. "Hi, Alera... um, we were wondering if maybe we could sit together? Study together?"
I lifted my head slowly, letting my gaze sweep across the trio. Selina, petite, dark-haired, fidgeted with her pen, and Isabella, red lipstick slightly smudged from nerves, tried to offer a reassuring smile.
I let the silence stretch, my eyes not leaving theirs. Every second felt like a knife, cutting through their confidence.
"I don't study with anyone," I said, voice low, controlled, absolute. No warmth. No hesitation.
Selina swallowed hard. "Oh... but we thought maybe... we could help? We're really good at notes... and assignments..."
I leaned back, letting the shadow of my posture speak louder than my words. "I don't need help. I don't need approval. And I certainly don't need companions."
The girls exchanged uneasy glances. Isabella tried to recover. "We just... thought we could... be friends?"
I let a single eyebrow rise, a tiny motion that froze them in place. "Friends are irrelevant," I said, my tone flat, cold as ice. "I associate with no one who cannot match me in intellect, resolve, and discipline."
Marina's jaw tightened. "Well... maybe we could at least... sit near you?"
I let out a slow exhale, deliberate, like the wind brushing through autumn leaves. "You may occupy the same space. Nothing more. Do not mistake proximity for permission."
Selina flinched. "I... okay..."
I turned back to my notebook, pretending they no longer existed. Their footsteps shuffled away, hesitant, careful, like mice retreating from a predator.
Even as they left, I could hear whispers from the other tables: "She's... untouchable." "Impossible." "Cold as ice, but... beautiful."
Exactly. Let them whisper. Let them envy. Let them fear. That is power. That is control. That is Alera Brake.
A few boys, braver-or more foolish-lingered at the edge of my table. Dmitri, with his easy grin, tried a casual "Hey, Alera..." but I didn't look up. Leon, who fancied himself charming, leaned against a nearby shelf. "You know, you don't have to be so... distant."
I didn't turn. I didn't speak. Silence. My body language said everything: I am not for you. I am not approachable. And the more you try, the more futile you appear.
Dmitri shifted uncomfortably. Leon's smirk faltered. Neither dared push further. Not today.
Because I am Alera Brake. Russian mafia. Heiress. Untouchable. And in a world of whispers, envy, and fragile egos, I am the storm that everyone fears-but no one can touch.
After a few moments of silence, Marina, Selina, and Isabella exchanged hurried glances, as if silently agreeing on a new approach. Marina stepped closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Maybe... we could join the study group tonight? You could lead, and we'd follow," she suggested, forcing a laugh that trembled on the edges.
I didn't respond. I simply tilted my head, letting my eyes linger on her for long enough that she squirmed under my gaze. That small pause, that tiny shift in posture, told her everything she needed to know: I didn't negotiate. I didn't need allies.
Selina tried again, softer this time. "We... we really admire how organized you are. Maybe we could... help you with notes?"
I leaned back, stretching my arms casually across the table, every movement deliberate. "Help is unnecessary. Observation is permitted. Participation is not."
Isabella's hands twisted nervously in her lap. "We just... thought we could-"
"Thought is a poor substitute for ability," I interrupted smoothly. My voice was quiet but precise, cutting through the room like a blade.
They all faltered, and I could see their uncertainty growing. I didn't need to say more. My silence, my calm, the unyielding poise in my posture-it all did the work. I was untouchable. Untouchable, unbothered, unyielding.
A group of boys lingered nearby, as if daring themselves to try. Dmitri, with a practiced grin, leaned against the bookshelf and said casually, "You don't have to be so... cold, you know. University's meant to be fun."
I didn't even glance at him. The smallest tilt of my head, the faint narrowing of my eyes, made it clear he was wasting his breath. Fun was a luxury. Weakness was a risk. Neither belonged to me.
Leon, ever the self-proclaimed charmer, tried a smirk. "Come on, Alera... lighten up. You could be friends with us."
I let a small, deliberate sigh escape my lips, as if humoring them briefly. "I have no need for friendship. I have no need for approval. And I have no time for trivialities."
The boys exchanged looks and retreated, careful to avoid my gaze. The girls lingered a few steps longer, hoping for some crack in my armor, some hint of warmth-but none appeared.
I watched them leave, each step away from me deliberate and hesitant. Whispers followed, but I paid them no mind. I had the entire room, the library, and even the day itself under my control.
I returned to my notes, the silence wrapping around me like a cloak. The others might chase, plead, or attempt to charm-but I was a storm contained in a body of ice. And storms, by their nature, were not meant to be tamed.
By the next day, the whispers had grown louder. Marina, Selina, and Isabella weren't giving up-they had decided that subtlety might succeed where boldness failed. I noticed the way they lingered near my classes, their eyes darting toward me as though hoping for a glimpse into my world.
During the afternoon lecture, I caught Marina passing a folded note across the room toward Selina. My eyes followed every movement effortlessly. I didn't need to intercept it; I simply made sure that when their gaze met mine, they faltered. A small pause, a slight raise of my brow, and the note stayed clutched in Marina's hand, unread.
After class, they approached me again, this time in the courtyard. Selina forced a smile, holding out a small notebook. "We... we thought you might like these. Just some notes we made, so you wouldn't have to-"
I didn't take it. I let my hand hover over the notebook, long enough that the gesture became a silent message: I don't need you. I don't need your notes. I don't need your approval.
"I appreciate your effort," I said, my tone even, cold, precise, "but your intentions are irrelevant."
Marina opened her mouth, flustered. "We... we just wanted to help-"
"Then help yourselves first," I interrupted smoothly, "before attempting to help someone who doesn't require it."
They stumbled over words, each trying to salvage some dignity, but it was useless. I didn't shout. I didn't insult. I simply existed as I always did: calm, in control, untouchable.
From a nearby bench, a few boys-Dmitri, Leon, and another named Marco-watched the exchange with wide eyes. One of them whispered, "She... she's impossible."
I let them whisper. Let them speculate. Let them envy. That was their role in my world. Observers. Never participants.
Finally, the trio of girls backed away, whispering furiously among themselves. I could see the frustration, the envy, the plans forming in their minds. They thought strategy and gossip could pierce my calm, but they didn't realize that I had already seen every angle, anticipated every move.
I returned to my own path, walking through the courtyard with measured steps, every glance from passersby sliding off me like rain from polished leather. I had conquered the battlefield of whispers before it even began. And if they tried again? They would find that the storm of Alera Brake was not one easily swayed-or defeated.
The library awaited, quiet and still, and I welcomed its silence like a lover. This was my domain. My rules. My game. And no one-no girl, no boy, no gossip-would ever convince me otherwise.
By late afternoon, the university had begun to empty, and I allowed myself the rare indulgence of leaving early. My heels clicked on the polished pavement, each step deliberate, echoing my own certainty. Today had been... mundane, yet predictable. The students whispered, plotted, and failed to touch me. Typical.
I returned to the mansion in silence, the gates swinging open to reveal the familiar grandeur of the Brake estate. Marble floors stretched beneath high ceilings, chandeliers spilling golden light across walls lined with priceless art. The scent of sandalwood and cold stone greeted me like a second skin.
My reflection caught in the hallway mirror, and I paused briefly. My outfit was immaculate: a tailored black blazer over a silk blouse, perfectly fitted trousers, and boots that clicked like distant thunder. Every piece of clothing, every accessory, was chosen not for fashion, but for dominance. Power looks different on everyone. On me, it commands attention without a word.
My mother, Tatiana, was seated in the drawing room, sipping tea with her usual elegance. My father, Viktor, stood by the window, reviewing documents with that familiar frown of someone who commanded respect-and feared nothing.
"Alera," my mother greeted, her voice soft yet tinged with pride. "How was your day?"
"Uneventful," I said, placing my bag carefully on the table and removing my blazer with precision. I let my hair fall over one shoulder, straight and gleaming, and adjusted the silk blouse beneath. "Nothing of interest."
My father didn't look up. "Did anyone challenge you?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.
"No one matters," I replied smoothly. "They whisper. They plot. But none of them are worth attention."
Tatiana smiled faintly, as if she understood everything I didn't say aloud. "You do realize, my dear, that others will continue to try."
I allowed a small smirk, the kind that rarely graced my lips. "Let them. Watching them fail is... entertaining."
My father finally glanced at me, expression unreadable. "Remember, Alera, control is everything. Power without discipline is dangerous. You must never forget that."
"Of course," I said, my tone measured, respectful, yet carrying the weight of my own authority. "I never forget."
After a few more minutes of conversation, I retreated to my private quarters, where silence and control waited for me like loyal guards. I changed into a fitted evening gown-black velvet with sharp lines, reflecting the moonlight spilling through the tall windows. Jewelry was minimal: a single silver bracelet, a pair of earrings that caught the light with each movement. I was elegance personified. I was power, wrapped in beauty.
Sitting by the balcony, I let the cool night air brush against my skin. The university, the whispers, the petty schemes of classmates-all of it felt trivial here, in this space where I was untouchable. And yet... a small, fleeting thought crossed my mind. Something beyond the ordinary. Something... challenging.
But for tonight, it would remain just that: a thought.
I turned my gaze to the city lights below, perfectly distant, perfectly contained. And like always, I reminded myself: I am Alera Brake. And storms are not meant to be
Night had fully fallen over the Brake estate. The city lights outside the tall windows of my room twinkled faintly, distant and indifferent, a reflection of the world I had long observed from a distance.
I closed the door to my private suite, allowing silence to wrap around me like a familiar cloak. My day had ended-another round of whispers, timid approaches, and predictable games-but the quiet of night was mine alone.
I slipped out of my gown, the velvet sliding over my skin, leaving behind the armor I wore in daylight. Underneath, I changed into nightwear: a sleek black silk camisole and shorts, simple yet elegant, designed for comfort but still reflecting the control I carried even in rest. The fabric felt like a whisper against my skin, a private luxury for a life otherwise watched and calculated.
Drawn to the reflection of the moonlight, I walked barefoot to the indoor swimming pool. Its water shimmered like liquid silver in the faint glow of recessed lights. I paused at the edge, toes grazing the cool surface, and allowed myself the rare indulgence of release.
I slipped into the water, the chill biting gently against my skin. It was refreshing, almost cleansing, as I let my body float, weightless. Arms extended, hair fanned around me in the still water, I let my thoughts drift.
Today, like every day, had been predictable. Students who tried and failed, whispers that reached my ears before words even formed, eyes that lingered with envy or fear. It was all... monotonous. Even power, even dominance, could feel hollow in repetition.
I thought of my life-of the mansion, the legacy, the control I wielded. Of the endless training, the lessons from my father, the expectations my mother instilled. Everything I had, everything I had become, had been calculated. Everything had a purpose. Yet sometimes, in the stillness, a question surfaced, quiet but persistent: Is this enough?
I let the water carry the thought away, letting the ripples obscure the reflection of my own face. I was beautiful, I was powerful, I was untouchable-but was I alive beyond the rules, beyond the expectations, beyond the armor?
The water embraced me, and for a moment, I allowed myself the luxury of uncertainty. Not fear-never fear-but curiosity. Curiosity for something real, something raw, something that could challenge me beyond whispers, beyond schemes, beyond calculated dominance.
I swam until the chill turned comfortable, until the reflection staring back at me was only partially mine-shadowed, fluid, evolving. Then I exited the pool, wrapping myself in a black silk robe, the water dripping slowly from my hair.
Standing by the large windows, I watched the city, quiet and distant. My life was meticulous, structured, and untouchable-but perhaps, I thought, in the depths of this controlled existence, there was space for something... unexpected.
For now, I let the thought linger. The night was mine. The water had cleansed more than my skin. It had stirred a curiosity I had long buried, one that might, one day, lead me beyond the predictable life of Alera Brake-the Russian mafia heiress, the untouchable storm.

I moved through the streets with a quiet rhythm, but my mind wasn't on the city tonight. It wandered, as it often did, to the man who had shaped everything I was: my father, Enzo Luciano.
Enzo. The name carried weight in every corner of the world I inhabited. A man of ruthless precision, unwavering authority, and an unforgiving code. He had been feared, respected, and obeyed without question. And I had been his son.
I remember sitting in his study as a boy, watching him make decisions that bent people, businesses, and even governments to his will. I remember the cold steel in his eyes, the calm voice that could slice through lies, excuses, and weakness alike.
"You will not be weak," he had said once, placing a hand on my shoulder with a force I could still feel in my bones. "Power is responsibility. Control is survival. And fear... fear is the language they all understand."
I had carried those words with me, like a second skin. I had trained under him, observed him, and learned. Not just the mechanics of control or violence-but the subtle art of presence, of influence, of dominance.
His death had left a void-but also a throne. The Don of the Luciano family was no longer Enzo. It was me. Carlo Luciano.
Some nights, I felt the weight of his shadow pressing on me-not like a threat, but like a challenge. To live up to his legacy, to surpass it, to not merely inherit the empire but to redefine it. Ruthlessness, yes-but calculated, intelligent, refined. I didn't just want to rule. I wanted to embody fear and respect, not just demand it.
I adjusted my cufflinks, glancing at the reflection in a shop window. The man staring back was tall, poised, impeccably dressed. Dark eyes, sharp jaw, and the kind of presence that made people instinctively step aside. I was Enzo's son-and I was my own storm.
The streets whispered rumors, small, insignificant things that would have drawn my father's attention. I listened, catalogued, calculated. Everything had a place, everything had a purpose. That was what he had taught me. That was what I had inherited.
And yet... sometimes, in the quiet moments like this, I wondered what it truly meant to be free under the weight of a legacy that demanded perfection, control, and fear. But hesitation was a luxury I could not afford. I was Carlo Luciano, son of the late Don Enzo Luciano, and under my gaze, the world learned quickly that mistakes were not tolerated, and weakness was not forgiven.
Tonight, the city obeyed silently. And so did I.
Now i am here with ____ elena
One of my submissive slut
And also a assistance for me
Elena had been... predictable. Her charm, her attempts to act bold-it was all superficial. But she had a role. A tool. A distraction. And in my world, every distraction had its purpose.
She approached me again later that night, slipping through the shadows near my private office. Her eyes were wide, not with fear this time, but with an eagerness that was almost... servile. I could smell it in her hesitation, in the way her lips parted when she spoke.
"I... I just wanted to see you," she whispered, her tone coated in a mixture of submission and seduction.
I didn't move. I didn't need to. My presence alone was enough to command her attention. Everything about her, from the way she lingered to the subtle curves of her body, had been designed to draw my focus. And yet, she was insignificant in the grand scale of what I commanded.
"You know your place," I said, my voice low, deliberate. "And yet, you try to remind me why you exist."
She tilted her head, almost coyly, like a pet testing boundaries. "I... I can help you. I can... I can serve you," she murmured, voice soft, vulnerable, but not stupid. She understood the rules, and she played her role willingly.
I allowed a faint smirk, barely perceptible, letting her think she had any sway. She had none. She never would. She was a distraction, a tool, a fleeting indulgence-not a threat, not a rival.
"Good," I said simply. "Remember, your usefulness lies in obedience and discretion. Anything beyond that... is irrelevant."
She nodded, almost reverently, and I could see the subtle thrill in her eyes-the kind of thrill only someone who fully embraces their submission could feel when they know they are being watched, measured, and controlled by someone untouchable.
I turned away, letting her linger in the shadows, a silent reminder that in my world, power was absolute, and everyone else existed only in relation to it. She was a distraction, a fleeting spark in the night-but sparks can be dangerous if allowed to grow. I didn't allow growth. I didn't allow mistakes. I allowed control.
And for tonight, Elena's presence had reminded me of something I often forgot in the quiet precision of my life: people are predictable. Tools are disposable. And I... am the storm that decides the shape of everything around me.
The alley was quiet, the kind of quiet that carried secrets and whispered of mistakes. I could smell fear before I even saw her-a faint, almost sweet scent, mixed with sweat and hesitation.
Elena. She was naïve, overconfident, and reckless. A dangerous combination for anyone who dared cross me.
I stepped into the dim light, the click of my shoes echoing sharply against the walls. One look at her, and I knew she had already counted herself safe. Foolish. So predictable.
"You shouldn't be here," I said, my voice low, deliberate. Not a question. A warning.
She tried to steady herself, shoulders back, chin high, but her hands betrayed her. Trembling. Tiny flickers of hesitation in her posture. "I... I didn't mean-"
Intentions are meaningless. Only actions matter.
"Actions matter," I corrected, stepping closer. The shadow of my presence wrapped around her, suffocating, inescapable. I didn't have to raise my hand. I didn't need to shout. My gaze alone held the weight of consequences.
She swallowed hard. "I... I can fix this..." Her voice wavered, the courage she tried to muster crumbling like dry paper.
I tilted my head slightly, studying her. The way she thought she could negotiate, reason with me, charm me-it was laughable. "Fix?" I repeated, letting the word hang like a knife in the air. "Do you understand what fixing means? It means bending. It means surviving. You've already failed by standing where you shouldn't."
Her lips parted, but no words came. Her eyes widened just enough to reveal the truth: she understood she had underestimated me. She was already in too deep.
"You will leave. Now," I said, calm, precise, every syllable deliberate. "And if I see you-or anyone else-overstepping boundaries again, the consequences will be... final."
"Yes..." she whispered, barely audible, nodding as her legs betrayed her and carried her away. I let her go, watched her disappear into the darkness, but I didn't feel satisfaction. I felt control. Always control.
The city stretched before me, indifferent, chaotic, but under my gaze, everything fell into order. Everyone-friends, enemies, pawns, or fools-was measured, accounted for. Ruthless. Calculated. Untouchable. That was who I was. That was what I had been bred to become.
Adjusting my blazer, I walked into the night with quiet purpose. The streets knew fear in my presence, but that fear wasn't about me. It was about choice. It was about the inevitability of crossing me.
And in a world of whispers and shadows, I was the one who decided which whispers deserved attention-and which shadows would swallow the foolish whole.
The city was alive with murmurs, whispers carried on the wind, faint but persistent. Businessmen, street vendors, low-level criminals-everyone seemed to know her name. Alera Brake.
I paused, leaning against the cold stone of a building, letting the sounds of the night filter through my awareness. I didn't need to search. Her reputation preceded her. Russian mafia heiress. Heiress of the Brake family. Untouchable. Cold. Calculated. Dangerous.
Even from a distance, I could sense the ripple of power she left behind. The way people hesitated around her, the envy that clung to her like a shadow, the subtle control she wielded without raising a hand. Fascinating.
A waiter from a nearby café, unaware of the storm he was speaking into, muttered under his breath as he passed me: "Did you hear? That Alera Brake... she doesn't associate with anyone. Not even students dare approach her. They say she's... untouchable."
I let the words hang in the air. Untouchable. I had lived my entire life understanding power, fear, and respect. And yet, the idea of a woman who commanded it as naturally as she breathed... piqued something in me. Curiosity, sharpened by instinct, by calculation.
I didn't need to see her to understand her. The stories were enough: students trying and failing to approach her, her elegance as a weapon, her cold demeanor cutting through arrogance like a blade. The city had already learned one thing about her-she was a storm of her own making.
And storms... storms were not to be ignored.
Adjusting my collar, I let my mind wander, tracing the lines of her reputation, imagining the kind of woman who could command fear and admiration simultaneously. Strong. Ruthless. Calculated. Unyielding.
A small smirk tugged at the corner of my lips. I had ruled streets, controlled shadows, and bent enemies to my will. Yet the thought of encountering someone like her-a presence as unapproachable as it was magnetic-was... enticing. A challenge.
The night stretched before me, empty streets reflecting dim lights like scattered stars. Somewhere out there, Alera Brake moved through her world, unaware that someone had already begun measuring her-not in envy, but in calculation. Someone who understood the value of control, the weight of legacy, and the thrill of power.
And that someone was me.
Carlo Luciano. Son of the late Don Enzo Luciano. Ruthless, calculating, untouchable. And now... intrigued.
The collision of two storms was inevitable. I could feel it. And when it came, the world would take notice.
Later that night, Elena appeared again-this time not in the shadows of an alley, but at the edge of my private office. She lingered just outside the light, her posture betraying both fear and something else: anticipation.
"You came again," I said without looking up from the documents I pretended to review. My voice was calm, controlled-every syllable deliberate, weighted.
"I... I wanted to," she murmured, stepping closer, the soft click of her heels against the floor echoing faintly. "I just... I want to be useful to you."
I finally lifted my gaze. Her eyes were wide, shimmering under the dim light, almost pleading, yet there was a glimmer of boldness in the way she tried to hold my attention.
"Useful?" I asked, letting the word roll slowly off my tongue, sharp as a blade. "Do you know what useful means in my world?"
She swallowed, voice trembling but steady enough to mask desperation. "I... I think so. I can... I can serve. I can follow orders."
I leaned back in my chair, observing her, weighing her, reading every micro-expression as if she were an open book. "Serve?" I echoed, voice low and deliberate. "You understand that obedience is not optional. That loyalty is earned, not given. That failure is... not forgiven?"
Her lips parted. "Yes... I understand."
"Good," I said, standing and closing the distance between us. One step. Two steps. The space she had assumed was safe shrank, and with it, her confidence wavered. "Your role is simple. Distract. Observe. Report. And when instructed, obey. Do not exceed your place. Do not presume. And never... under any circumstance... mistake my patience for weakness."
"Yes..." she whispered again, almost reverently.
I circled her slowly, silent, predatory, like a storm contained within a man. "You exist to serve a purpose. And your purpose," I said, stopping behind her shoulder, "is to be useful to me, not to impress, not to entertain, not to manipulate. Your survival depends on discipline. Remember that."
She nodded again, shivering slightly, but not from fear alone. There was a thrill in her posture, a kind of eager submission that told me she understood the game-and enjoyed playing it.
"Now," I said, taking a deliberate step back, "leave before I reconsider your usefulness. Your obedience is appreciated only as long as it does not falter. Remember, Elena... usefulness is not a reward. It is a responsibility."
She backed away, nodding quickly, almost tripping in her haste to retreat, yet somehow managing to maintain a semblance of composure. Before disappearing into the shadows, she dared one glance back, eyes wide, lips trembling in anticipation.
I watched her leave, the faintest smirk brushing my lips. Fear, respect, obedience... and just a hint of eagerness. She was predictable, expendable, yet useful. And that was enough for now.
Alone in my office, I returned to my desk, letting the quiet reclaim the room. People like Elena had their place. But storms, like me... storms could never be tamed by the weak.
Perfect! Let's continue in Carlo
Elena returned later that night, slipping into the quiet of my private office with her usual careful deference. She lingered at the edge of the light, hesitant but eager, as though she had something delicate-dangerous-to say.
"You wanted to see me?" I asked, not looking up from the documents I was pretending to review.
"Yes... sir," she murmured, bowing her head slightly. "It's... about your mother."
I finally lifted my gaze, narrowing my eyes. My mother, Tatiana Luciano, was meticulous, calculating, and never, ever allowed mistakes. "Go on," I said, voice low, deliberate.
Elena hesitated, as if testing my patience. "She... she's planning something. An... arranged marriage for you. Soon. She said it's... necessary, for alliances, family... the empire."
The words landed like a cold stone in my chest. I didn't flinch. I didn't show anger. But a slow, deliberate silence filled the room while I considered her carefully chosen phrasing.
"She thinks she can decide my life," I said finally, voice sharp but controlled. "As if the Luciano empire bends to sentiment. As if Carlo Luciano bends to plans he did not choose."
Elena swallowed, shivering slightly. "She... she said it's for your future. She... she thinks it's... someone influential. Someone important."
I stood abruptly, straightening my jacket, moving closer to her. My eyes pierced, not in threat, but in calculated dominance. "Influence? Importance? That is not the measure of me. My future is mine, Elena. Mine alone. And anyone chosen for me... must meet my standards, not my mother's. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir," she whispered, nodding quickly.
I turned back to the window, letting the city lights reflect off the glass. Arranged marriage. Alliances. Obligations. Family rules. Tatiana believed she was securing the empire's future, but she underestimated me. She always did, in small ways.
I allowed myself a slow breath. There were still moves to make, people to observe, strategies to plan. And the girl she had in mind? I didn't know her yet. I didn't even know her name.
But I would learn. And when the time came, I would decide-not my mother, not some alliance, not tradition. I would decide.
The empire was mine. My rules were absolute. And nothing-not family, not society, not even whispers of duty-would bend me before I chose to be bent.
Arranged marriage. The words hit me like ice, cold and sharp. My mother, Tatiana Luciano, believed she could dictate my life, bind me to her plans, and tie me to someone I had never met.
She was wrong.
I didn't flinch. I didn't hesitate. I would not bend. Not for family. Not for alliances. Not for tradition. My life-my choices-were mine. No one had the right to decide for Carlo Luciano.
Elena, standing awkwardly at the edge of my office, waited for a response. "Sir..." she began, unsure, but I cut her off with a glance that silenced her immediately.
"I am against it," I said, voice low, sharp, deliberate. "Do you hear me, Elena? Against it. I will not be handed a bride as if I were some boy to be guided. I am not an obligation to anyone. Least of all to my mother's schemes."
Her lips parted slightly, but no words came. Good. I didn't need witnesses. I didn't need approval. I didn't need permission.
"This empire, this city, my life-it is mine," I continued, each word deliberate, each syllable a strike of finality. "Anyone who tries to force me into a marriage, anyone who dares to decide for me, will learn that Carlo Luciano answers to no one. Not even my mother."
I paced the office, slow and controlled, letting the gravity of my defiance settle in the air. Elena nodded nervously, clearly afraid, but I didn't care. Fear was fine-respect was better.
Let the whispers begin. Let my mother think she can manipulate, arrange, command. I would not. I cannot. I will not bow to expectation.
Arranged marriage? Not under my name. Not under my terms.
Carlo Luciano would always choose his own path. Always.