LOGINLuther Green
I leaned against the wall of the office, arms crossed, eyes locked on the security footage playing across the screens. The cold blue light cast ghostly shadows over my face, but it did nothing to cool the burning rage inside me.
There she was.
Liora.
Lying by the pool in nothing but the ti
PRESENTPIERREPARIS, FRANCEThe morning light pierces through the smoked glass of my office with surgical precision, but my eyes remain fixed on that damn quadrant of the monitor. Already dressed in an impeccable Tom Ford suit, the knot of my tie tightens like a reminder of the restraint I should maintain.On the screen, the studio camera captures a close-up of her fingers — long, precise, deadly — gliding over the fabric as if exploring a lover's skin. Every movement is a provocation. The way her index finger presses a pin, the curve of her wrists as she smooths a fold, the shadow between her fingers when they test the thickness of the silk.Holy fuck…The Chinese porcelain cup trembles in my hand, the bitter coffee spilling onto the saucer. The drink that should wake me only feeds the poison she insists on injecting into my veins.Elizabeth transforms the mundane act of creating clothing into an intimate performance. And I, like a voyeur in my own hell, can't look away. The aroma o
PAST — 12 YEARS AGOOLIVIERLEFÈVRE MANSIONThe sound of the violin drifted through the mansion's corridors, intertwining with the murmur of conversations and the soft clinking of crystal glasses. Leaning against the marble fireplace, I watched my father, Carlo Lefèvre, raise his Bordeaux glass in a solemn toast."To my son," he declared, his deep voice echoing through the hall. "To the new Don of the Black Hand."My mother, Élodie, smiled beside him, her white silk dress enhancing her serene elegance. My twin brothers, Maxime and Theodoro, only six years old, ran among the guests, laughing loudly, their faces illuminated by the golden light of the chandelier.I couldn't explain it, but an uneasy feeling tightened in my chest. As if this were the last night we would all be together.The first bang didn't come from a gunshot — it was the sound of the French window shattering. Before anyone could react, chaos swallowed the hall."Fuck!" my father growled, drawing his M1911 from its hols
ELIZABETHThe Parisian sky was still tinged with a grayish blue when I arrived at Maison Dumont, so early that even the pigeons were still dozing on the eaves. First-day anxiety had driven me out of bed like a shot, leaving me planted here before the imposing neoclassical facade, with the access key freezing between my fingers—a small metal cylinder that weighed like a sentence.My mother and sisters had left the previous night, as I knew they would. Two days was the maximum Mom could handle away from my fathers—just as they couldn't handle being away from her, her biological clock marking the hours like a sentry on guard. The twins had left lipstick marks on the mirror and a stash of ammunition hidden in my bed's lining—the same ones I'd given them.The streets are quiet; only the whisper of tree leaves and the scent of freshly baked bread from the bakeries beginning to open break the silence. I breathe deeply, absorbing the sweet aroma of croissants and coffee from the café across t
PIERRE DUMONTPARIS, FRANCE — LE BARONEndless meetings at a business lunch, investors sucking every drop of patience I have left, and that damn autumn collection that refuses to come together on paper. Antoine, my department director and best friend since childhood, is on edge — I can see it in the small tics that only I know, the ones he hides from the rest of the world."We need a drink." He growls, rubbing his face with his hands, the impeccable cuffs of his shirt now disheveled.We leave the meeting exhausted, but my mind can't stop thinking about the blonde I bumped into earlier at Maison. She was so unique, so… different. So much so that before I even walked through the Maison doors to meet Antoine for today's meeting, as soon as I finished my call, I'd already asked one of my men to locate her.And now, thanks to the dossier I just received as we left the restaurant, I know everything about Elizabeth Taylor Smirnov.The complete dossier on her weighs in my hands like a sentenc
PRESENTELIZABETHMy mother settles into the wine-red velvet sofa like a queen on her throne, while my sisters scatter across the room like cats sniffing new territory. The apartment still smells of fresh paint and polished wood — an elegant disguise for the bulletproof walls Yakov installed."Daryushka, tell me everything." Mom murmurs, sinking her black-painted fingers into a crystal glass filled with vodka. Her green eyes gleam with the same predatory curiosity from when we were children and she'd interrogate me about stolen candy.I take a deep breath as I describe Maison Dumont: the hallways are wide as runways, the scent of Italian leather and Turkish coffee, the way the older designers watched me as if I were an intruder—which, technically, I am."And this Pierre Dumont?" Alicia interrupts, sharpening a nail with the tip of her stylus. "Is he as charming as they say?"Before I can answer, Mom lets out that low laugh that makes even the furniture tremble. Her high heels rest on
PAST — 13 YEARS AGODARYA GREENNEW YORK, NY — GREEN MANSIONOne year.Twelve months since Michael walked into my life like a storm of charm and secrets. Now, when I hear his footsteps in the hallway, my heart races in a way I can't control.The door opens, and he appears with a smile that illuminates even the darkest corners of the mansion."Darya." My name on his lips is like music — sweet and soft — and I catch myself smiling before I even realize it.I pretend to keep reading, but my eyes betray me, searching for his. But he knows the effect he has on me and loves it."I was thinking about you." He leans in, gently taking the book from my hands. His fingers brush against mine, and a shiver runs through my body."It must have been a very short thought, then." I reply, trying to keep my tone playful, but my voice falters when he moves closer.He laughs, low, and the sound makes my stomach flutter."You talk as if you don't notice the way I spend hours watching you." His eyes gleam w
Liora VossI descend the stairs after spending the entire previous day with Luther and find only the sadist downstairs. The house is wrapped in an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the soft sound of his conversation in the kitchen. He’s speaking with the cook, a woman in her sixties whose prese
Luther GreenMy brothers watch me as if I’m a bomb about to detonate. Maybe I am.The stitches from the wounds I received at the Black Velvet have healed, but the rage inside me remains an open, festering wound. The doctor said I needed another week of complete rest. I stared at him until he lowered
Liora VossThe room was submerged in a heavy gloom, lit only by the weak yellowish light from the lamp beside the bed. Luther slept deeply, his broad chest rising and falling in a slow, artificial rhythm due to the strong sedatives Noah had administered. The thick scent of dried blood, antiseptic, m
Luther GreenI sat at the dark wooden table in the Black Velvet, one of our bars in New York. The atmosphere was warm, with amber lights casting dancing shadows on the exposed brick walls. The scent of aged whiskey and expensive tobacco hung







