Master of Her Sins

BelaMilan’s elite nightlife always looked like it belonged to another species of people—ones who never had to calculate survival in the middle of a shift, or memorize which smile meant danger and which meant boredom.The club I worked in was one of those places, tucked behind velvet discretion and membership lists that cost more than my entire life.The guests didn’t see me as a person so much as a function. That was fine. Functions didn’t get emotionally entangled. Functions didn’t get remembered.“Table six is asking for another bottle,” Marco muttered as I passed him behind the bar.“I already sent one,” I replied without stopping.“Yeah, but they’re bored,” he said with a shrug, like boredom was a form of currency I should be paying attention to.I finally glanced at him. “They’re always bored. That’s why they drink expensive things and pretend it fixes it.”That earned me a faint smirk, but he didn’t argue further. He knew better than to push when my tone was like that.I turned

Bela“NO,” I said for the fourth time, pushing away a hanger draped in a cascading, midnight-blue gown. “I am not putting that on. I am not playing dress-up for Sebastian.”The younger maids exchanged terrified glances, looking at the heavy double doors as if expecting Seb to burst through them at any moment.But it was the older servant, a woman with silver-streaked hair and deeply lined eyes named Maria, who finally stepped forward. She gently dismissed the others with a sharp nod.Once the door clicked shut, Maria held up a striking emerald green knitted dress. She didn’t look at me with pity.“Signorina Bela,” she whispered. “Resisting Mr. Ricaforte in private is one thing. But resisting him publicly, in front of the people who are coming today? It will only make things worse for you. Put on the dress. Do not give his enemies a reason to look closely at you.”Her words hit me like a splash of ice water. She was right. Survival meant blending in, even when trapped in a gilded cage.

SebFOR THREE years, I carried a piece of scorched metal in my pocket—the only remnant recovered from the vehicle explosion that supposedly claimed her life.The family called it a t ragedy. The syndicate called it closure.I called it a lie.“We’ve secured the perimeter, Boss,” Matteo said, stepping into the dim light of my private study.I didn’t look up from the security monitors displaying the various angles of the penthouse hallway.On the central screen, Bela was sitting on the edge of the bed, her chin resting in her hands, staring blankly at the floor. The emerald green dress wrinkled around her knees.“And the staff?” I asked, my voice flat.“Maria is managing them. They know the penalty for speaking outside these walls.” Matteo hesitated, shifting his weight. “But the men are asking questions, Boss. Why are we keeping her hidden here? If she’s alive, she belongs at the main estate. The Don’s old contracts regarding the Dela Costa line—”“The Don is dead, Matteo. I run this f

SebTHE PRIVATE basement beneath the Milan penthouse didn’t resemble a dungeon.It was a cold, clinical space of poured concrete and fluorescent lighting—soundproofed, sterile, and designed specifically for the Ricaforte organization’s most delicate interrogations.Two guards escorted Vince into the center of the room. They didn’t bother tying him to the metal chair, everyone inside this empire knew that escape from a sub-level was an absolute impossibility.“Leave us,” I commanded, my voice flat as I walked toward the small wet bar in the corner.The heavy steel door clicked shut, leaving only the two of us.I calmly poured two fingers of amber whiskey into a crystal glass, letting the ice clink softly against the sides before I turned around. Vince stood rigid, his chest heaving under his uniform, his face entirely drained of color.“Tell me exactly what she said,” I murmured, taking a slow sip.Vince didn’t stumble over his words. He was too terrified to lie. He truthfully repeated

Bela“FORGIVE ME, Signorina…”Maria’s voice was trembling as she frantically rearranged the silver on the table. She wouldn’t look at me. Her hands moved with a chaotic speed that betrayed her terror.“An old woman’s mind playing tricks,” she quickly added. “It was… a habit from the old days at the estate. A slip of the tongue.”“A habit? That’s impossible,” I repeated, my voice barely louder than a breath. “Maria, look at me.”But she already backing away, clutching her dust cloth to her chest like a shield. “I must tend to the linens downstairs. Please, excuse me.”She vanished into the corridor before I could stop her, leaving me alone with the echoing clatter of the silver tray.A habit.The excuse was a lie, and we both knew it. I had never been a Ricaforte. I had been a c