Whispers of Loyalty

ALANAThere are lies you tell to protect people.Then there are lies you tell to protect yourself.I told Zach both. And I told them well.He doesn’t know who I am. Not really. Not yet. And I’ve gotten good at keeping it that way.We met three months ago outside an abandoned corner store on Locke Street. It was dusk, humid and sticky, the air heavy with the scent of oil, asphalt, and firecrackers. He was leaning against the side of the building like he had nowhere to be and liked it that way.Skater boy type. But not the soft kind.He wore ripped jeans, black Vans, and a gray hoodie that was too big for him, hood up even though it was eighty degrees. He wasn’t hiding. Not really. He just seemed like the kind of person who’d lived enough lives to know the less you showed the world, the less it tried to take from you.His brown hair was shaggy, a little too long in the back, like he cut it himself in a bathroom mirror. Strands fell into his face when he leaned down to light a cigarette

ALANAThere’s a scent I can never wash off.It clings to my skin even after three showers and my favorite vanilla lotion.Even when I drown it in expensive perfume and rose oil, it always lingers. Blood.It’s not always literal. Sometimes it’s memory. Sometimes it’s your last name.I’ve learned how to walk through the world like I’m weightless. Like I don’t leave footprints behind. People look at me and see silk and soft things. Dresses that flutter when I move. Lip gloss that smells like peach. The kind of smile that says I’ve never had to beg for anything in my life.And they’re right. In one way.But what they don’t know, what Zach doesn’t know, is that the only reason I don’t beg is because people bleed when I ask for something.I’m still thinking about him when I walk into my father’s office. My heels click against the marble like little gunshots. The sound usually makes me feel powerful. Today, it makes me nervous.Roman Vittore sits behind a desk that’s older than I am. He’s no

ALANAMy father didn’t raise a daughter.He raised a weapon.A beautiful, obedient, silent little weapon dressed in sundresses and smiles.He made sure I knew the difference.There are no real girls in this world. No softness. No innocence. Just trained dolls with sharp tongues and dead eyes, conditioned to smile through every command, every deal, every kill.That’s what I was made for.Not for falling in love with the enemy.Not for Zach.He hasn’t said it out loud. But he doesn’t need to.Roman knows.Not everything. Not yet. But enough.I can feel it in the way he looks at me now, like I’m some cracked vase on a shelf. Decorative. Dangerous. Easily discarded.He hasn’t hit me since I was thirteen. Not physically. But my father never needed fists to hurt me. His voice is enough. His silence is worse.“Sit,” he says now, gesturing to the leather chair across from his desk.The office smells like cigar smoke and metal. A fire crackles in the hearth behind him, not for warmth, just for

ALANAThere’s a moment when a flower begins to rot.It still looks beautiful bright petals, soft fragrance. But if you look close, the edges are curled, browning.It’s still alive. Just barely.I think that’s what I am now.Still beautiful. Still smiling. But inside, I’m starting to decay.I should’ve stayed away from him. But I didn’t.I should’ve told Roman everything from the start.But I couldn’t.Now I’m standing in a marble hallway, heart pounding, fingers clenched, waiting for the devil who raised me to call me in.Two guards stand at the double doors. Their suits are black, ties tighter than nooses, hands folded like they’re not hiding semi-automatics beneath their jackets.The one on the left opens the door without a word.Roman’s office is colder today. Brighter. Sunlight pours in through the windows, but it doesn’t feel warm. It feels clinical. Like a spotlight in an interrogation room.My father is already seated. Leaning back. Calm. Too calm.There’s a file on the desk in

ALANAThey always say war turns boys into men. But no one talks about what it does to girls.It doesn’t make us women. It makes us weapons. Then it uses us until we break.It’s been sixteen hours since I delivered Zach into my father’s hands.Sixteen hours since I sedated the only person I’ve ever loved and handed him over like a package. Sixteen hours of silence.No updates. No word. No orders.Which means one of two things:Either the plan worked, or everything is about to go to hell.I stare at my bedroom ceiling as the sun starts bleeding through my curtains. I haven’t slept. I couldn’t. My mind won’t stop spinning.Zach is smart. He knows how to lie, how to play the part. He’s watching everything. Listening. I know he is. But even smart boys bleed when the wrong people get curious.And my father is very curious.A soft knock breaks the silence.Three taps. Then two. The code.Gia.I sit up fast, cross the room, and unlock the door. My best friend slips in, eyes scanning the hallw