Shadows

※※※Lissa

The silence of the penthouse after I shut the door was worse I was alone again. It was worse than before Klaus had come. The emptiness now had a memory—his laughter, the weight of his arm, the scent of him still on the pillows from last night I picked one up and hugged it. His absence was a fresh, raw wound layered over all the old, festering ones.

Alone again. And I hated it.

The voices started first. The voices were not audible, but I could hear the memories—the echoes of commands and critiques from the Union trainers.Weak. Emotional. Unstable. A liability. Then the nightmares began their slow creep from the edges of my consciousness—flashes of concrete cells, of restraint holds that left bruises for weeks, of being forced to fight until I vomited from exhaustion.

Klaus had been a buffer. His solid, demanding presence had kept the ghosts at bay for a night. Now they were back, hungry.

I walked to the bathroom on autopilot, my movements mechanical. I couldn’t even take a cold bath without freaking out, seeing the phantom hands of my handlers pushing me down into the icy water, holding me under until my lungs screamed and my vision spotted. A “calming technique.” A way to break panic responses. It just taught me to fear stillness.

I opened the medicine cabinet. The small, unlabeled bottles were from a discreet doctor on my father’s payroll. Sleeping pills. Calming tablets. I shook two of each into my palm and dry-swallowed them with a grimace, the bitter chalkiness coating my throat.

My usual routine.

I knew it was wrong. The pills, the next part… but it was the only way I had to prove to myself that this was real. That I was here, in my bathroom, and not back there. That I had agency, even if that agency was self-destruction.

I started the bath, water as hot as I could stand it, steam fogging the mirrors. Before I sank in, I sat on the cold marble edge. My eyes found the small, straight razor blade I kept on the counter, hidden behind a vase. A tool for precise cuts, for trimming lines, for this.

I leaned over, pulling my foot up onto my knee. The heel. No one saw the scars there. The skin was tough, it healed fast, and it was a pain I could control—sharp, clean, and immediate. I pressed the blade into the pale skin just below the curve of my heel and drew it across in one firm, practiced motion.

A bright, stinging line. Then, a moment later, the welling of dark red blood.

I sat there, watching it. The slow, thick trickle that ran down the arch of my foot and dripped, one… two… three heavy drops, into the steaming water below, where they bloomed into vanishing pink clouds.

“Fuck,” I breathed out, a heavy, shuddering exhale.

And finally, I felt it. The release. The sharp, clarifying pain cut through the fog of memory and dread like a scalpel. The chemical numbness from the pills began to merge with the endorphin rush, a toxic cocktail that smoothed out the jagged edges inside me. My body relaxed, muscles I hadn’t realized were clenched going slack.

I was numb.

I sank into the bath, the hot water biting at the cut, a secondary, cleansing sting. I soaked for about twenty minutes, until the pills began to drag me under, making the world soft and distant. The water turned lukewarm, tinged faintly pink.

I got out, dripping, and toweled off halfway, leaving damp patches on the mat. As I turned, I saw it—Klaus’s black hoodie, slung over the hook behind the door. He must have forgotten it. On impulse, I pulled it over my head. It swallowed me, the soft, worn fabric smelling overwhelmingly of him. I was half-naked beneath it, the hem hitting mid-thigh.

I didn’t bother with pajamas. I just stumbled into the dark bedroom, the combination of blood loss, pills, and exhaustion pulling me down like an anchor. I fell into the bed, the cool sheets a shock against my skin. The throbbing in my foot was a steady, grounding pulse in the darkness. I focused on it, on the weight of the hoodie, on the foreign scent that surrounded me, and let the nothingness take over.

The next morning, I woke feeling like myself again. The sharp, functional version. The ghosts and the panic were nocturnal creatures; daylight banished them, leaving only a hollow, tired ache behind. The shit they do to rewire you is shocking. The first two years had been the worst. I’d been such a “problem.” I would cry almost every night. Not from the physical pain, though there was plenty—the beatings for disobedience, for hesitation, for showing fear. I cried for Enzo. For the life I’d lost. For the girl who believed in love and safety.

Klaus would be there then. In the academy’s dormitories, he’d sneak into my room or I’d sneak into his. He wouldn’t talk much. He’d just bring a bottle of stolen vodka, and we’d get drunk together on the floor, passing it back and forth until the tears stopped and the world blurred into something manageable. A co-conspirator in misery.

Then, at the start of my third year, his four-year term was up. He left. Just like that. The one tether to my old capacity for feeling was gone.

That’s when I fell for one of my handlers. Justin. He looked like Enzo—same build, same dark intensity, tattoos snaking up his arms. He was older and authoritative. He showed me a shred of kindness, a break from the constant degradation. We had sex once. It was sloppy, awkward, and not what I was expecting. Not that I expected much anymore.

But he took that one time as permission. An open invitation. He’d sneak into my room at night, drunk on his own power, and demand it. A transaction. One night, he wouldn’t take no for an answer. A fight broke out. A real one, not training. He was stronger, but I was desperate, fueled by a rage I didn’t know I still had. I shoved him, hard—a move he’d taught me himself, leveraging his weight against him. He stumbled back, his head connecting with the sharp metal corner of my dresser with a sickening crack.

The Union covered it up. My father was informed. Justin was just a hire, no family, and a runaway. He died a few days later in the infirmary from a brain bleed.

The first man I ever killed.

And that shit changes you. The guilt I was supposed to feel… I didn’t. I felt nothing. A vast, cold emptiness. That’s when I knew the rewiring was complete. The last soft part had been cauterized.

Being back now was worse in some ways. I felt like an intruder in someone else’s life—the life of the girl I used to be. A ghost haunting her own empty penthouse.

I got up, moving stiffly. I went to the bathroom, cleaned the cut on my heel—it was already sealing, a neat red line—and bandaged it carefully. I pulled a thick, extra sock over it. No one would see.

I had Sunday lunch. I’d promised my father I would come.

So here goes nothing.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Pale face, dark circles under my blue eyes that looked too old for the rest of me. I smoothed down the simple black dress I’d chosen. Neutral. Respectable.

Smile, Lissa, I told the reflection, forcing the corners of my mouth up. It looked like a grimace. Just get through today.

One foot in front of the other. One performance at a time. That was all that was left.

The sight of my father’s villa, the sprawling stone villa nestled in its manicured grounds, usually brought a complicated mix of dread and nostalgia. Today, the dread spiked when I saw the unfamiliar black Hummer parked in the circular drive, sleek and menacing besides the more sedate family sedans. One of his new lap dogs, probably. Some enforcer or accountant he wanted to impress.

I bypassed the grandiose front entrance, heading instead for the kitchen door at the side of the house. The scent of garlic, roasting meat, and simmering tomatoes hit me before I even knocked—Sunday gravy, a ritual as unchanging as the Don himself. I gave a light tap and pushed the door open.

“Mama? You here?”

My mother turned from the massive stove, her face was stern affection that immediately melted into a radiant smile. “Oh, my beautiful girl!” She wiped her hands on her apron and hurried over, but not before giving my arm a playful, stinging smack. “Why do you only come and visit now? You forget where you live?”

I couldn’t help but smile. “I missed you too, Mama.”

She pulled me into a fierce, flour-dusted hug, then held me at arm’s length, her sharp eyes taking in every detail. “I like the short hair,” she declared, patting my cheek. “It suits you. Makes you look strong.”

“Thank you, Ma. Can I help with anything?”

“No, no, baby, I am done. Everything is resting. Come.” She linked her arm through mine. “Let’s go to the sunroom and have a little drink. Your father should be done with his business soon.”

She led me through the familiar, opulent halls to the bright, plant-filled sunroom overlooking the gardens. We sat on the plush wicker chairs, and she poured us two small glasses of dry sherry from a crystal decanter. We sipped in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the golden light filtering through the glass.

Then, I heard his voice, booming from the direction of his office wing.

“Where is my girl? Let me look at you!”

My father entered the sunroom. He was dressed in a crisp, casual linen shirt and trousers, but he carried the weight of his title like an invisible crown. His eyes, the same blue as mine but infinitely more weary, swept over me.

“Father. You look well,” I said, the formal greeting automatic.

“And you too, my girl. A little thin, but the city life, eh?” He kissed my forehead. “Okay, let’s eat. I am starving.”

As he led us towards the formal dining room, I noticed something off. The long, mahogany table was set for four, not three. An extra place setting was positioned directly next to my usual seat.

“Are we expecting someone?” I asked, a thread of unease winding through me.

“Yes, baby,” my mother said smoothly, patting my hand. “Your father invited someone over for lunch.”

We entered the dining room. I took my seat. My father moved to the sideboard, where an array of bottles glinted.

“What are you having, baby?” he asked.

“Vodka. Neat.”

He paused, the crystal decanter of red wine in his hand. He turned, his eyebrows raised. “Vodka?” He sounded genuinely shocked, as if I’d asked for battery acid.

“Yes, Father. Been my drink now for four years.” I kept my voice level, a simple statement of fact.

He studied me for a beat, then nodded slowly, setting the wine down and selecting a bottle of icy-cold, premium Russian vodka. As he poured a generous measure into a heavy tumbler, he said, “I hear you made yourself an alliance with the Russian. Novak Bratva.”

The way he said it—‘made yourself an alliance’—made it sound like a corporate merger, not a tangled, dangerous personal entanglement. “Yes, Father. His name is Klaus. I met him at the Union.”

He brought the glass to me, his eyes approving. “Good. We need the alliance. Well done for securing that. You should bring him over for a meal. I would like to meet him.”

Secure. As if Klaus were a business contract. “I will, Papa. soon,” I said. My father would appreciate Klaus’s power, his ruthlessness, his utility. And use it to benefit him in a way.

As the words left my lips, I heard footsteps approaching from the hall—firm, heavy, confident strides that were so out of place in this house of soft carpets and hushed voices. I looked up.

And my heart stopped.

It was Enzo.

Fuck.

He’d clearly come straight from… somewhere. He was wearing washed-out, dark blue jeans that clung to his legs, scuffed, bulky black engineer boots, and a simple black button-up shirt, left open at the collar, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing the corded muscle and dark ink of his forearms. The small black studs still glinted in his ears. He looked relaxed, casual, and completely, devastatingly in control. He’d shaved, but his hair was still slightly damp, as if he’d just washed his face.

His storm-dark eyes found mine immediately, a flicker of something unreadable—amusement, challenge, grim resolve—passing through them. He walked right up to the empty chair besides mine.

“Hey, Blue,” he said, his voice a low, familiar rasp that vibrated in the quiet room. “Nice to see you here.”

He didn’t sit. Instead, he leant down slightly, putting his face closer to mine. He reached out and put a single finger under my chin, tilting my face up to his. A smirk played on his lips. “Cat got your tongue?”

The intimate, provocative gesture, right in front of my parents, sent a bolt of pure, white-hot fury through the shock. I swatted his hand away, harder than necessary. “Hi, Cross. Not so nice to see you.”

From the head of the table, my mother spoke, her voice a gentle but firm command. “Play nice, you two. Let’s eat.”

My father, watching the exchange with an impassive expression, finally gestured for Enzo to sit. Enzo did, unfolding his long frame into the chair besides me with infuriating grace.

My father then handed me the glass of vodka he’d poured. The crystal was cold in my hand. I didn’t sip it. I looked from my father’s unreadable face to Enzo’s deliberately neutral one, the pieces crashing together with terrible clarity. The extra plate. The mandate to ‘secure’ an alliance.

This wasn’t a casual lunch. This was an ambush. A declaration.

Without breaking eye contact with my father, I lifted the glass and swallowed half the vodka in one burning gulp. The fire seared a path down my throat, a welcome counter to the ice spreading through my veins.

I set the glass down with a sharpclickon the linen tablecloth.“Another,” I said, my voice dangerously calm.

※※※

I have made a edit to this chapter leaning a bit more into what happend to Lissa this plays a very important part later on...🖤🖤🖤