Chapter 2 The Devil Has a Son

Ten years later, Spirales still smelled the same

Even with taller buildings and newer billboards, the city hadn't changed. Not really. The people walked faster, but the silence underneath the streets was still there. It remained in alleyways. It clung to old names. The kind of silence that came before something burned.

I walked through it every day like a ghost. I was no one, but merely a shadow.

Most people didn't recognize me. That was the point.

I go by Lexa now. Alexandria died the night my father did.

I dyed my hair, sharpened my tone, and stopped smiling with my eyes. I lived quietly, fast, and invisibly. I didn't speak to anyone unless I had to. I didn't stay too long in one place. I made up birthdays and backstories depending on the day.

But there were some things I couldn't change. The way my hands shook when I heard gunshots-even in movies. The way I froze when someone raised their voice. Or the map tattooed across my back... the one my father gave me. His final gift. His last act of defiance.

He didn't write it on paper. He didn't whisper it into the wind. He inked it on me.

A set of numbers and lines no one else understood. Coordinates. Locations. Secrets men were willing to kill for. And now I carried them on my skin like armor. I'd never shown anyone. Not even once.

I worked at a bar called Inferno-loud, low-lit, and full of people who didn't ask questions. It suited me. Drunks didn't notice what they weren't meant to see. My shift started late and ended later. I liked it that way. The music and chatter gave me something to hide inside.

"Lexa!" Rosa yelled from across the counter. "Table six wants whiskey. Top shelf. Guy looks like he can afford it."

I wiped my hands on a towel and nodded, barely glancing. "On it."

We got all kinds here. The tired. The flashy. The ones trying too hard to disappear. I'd stopped trying to sort them out. They all left the same way-tipsy, forgettable, gone.

But this one...

The man in the back booth wasn't forgettable.

Dark suit, no tie. White shirt open at the collar, enough to say I'm not here to impress you. He sat with his arm draped casually along the top of the leather seat, like he owned it.

Hell, like he owned everything. The room. The air. The silence. And when his eyes lifted and found mine...

I almost forgot how to breathe.

Something about him cracked through the part of me I'd tried to bury. He looked familiar-not in the face, not exactly-but in the way he watched me. Like he knew me. Like he was looking for something only I had.

I blinked, forced my face blank, and turned toward the liquor shelf.

Don't shake. Don't think. Just move.

I poured the whiskey with steady hands, but my stomach was doing backflips.

He hadn't looked away.

Even as I turned, grabbed the glass, and took the slow walk back to table six, I could feel his gaze tracking me. Not in the way drunk men did-not lazy or lustful. His stare was precise and controlled. The kind of stare that weighed things... calculated them.

I didn't like that. I slid the drink onto the table without making eye contact.

"Top shelf. Neat," I said, turning to leave.

"Sit."

I paused.

It wasn't a request. The word wasn't loud, but it landed heavy... like a challenge. I should've kept walking. I don't take orders from strangers. But something about the way he said it made me stop.

I turned slowly. "You got questions about the drink?"

"No," he said, lifting it to his lips. "Just thought you looked like someone who could use one too."

I almost laughed. Almost.

"Are you offering to buy me a drink?"

He smirked, just slightly. "Maybe I'm offering a moment."

I didn't sit. I just leaned one hand on the edge of the booth, steadying myself. "Look, I don't do moments. I pour drinks. I clean spills. That's it."

"Lexa, right?"

His voice wrapped around my name like he'd said it before. Like it meant something.

I stiffened. "How do you know my name?"

He tapped his glass. "The bartender said it. Relax."

I didn't; I couldn't. Something about this man made my skin prickle-like my body knew something I hadn't figured out yet.

"Are you from around here?" he asked.

I shook my head. "Not really."

"Funny," he said, leaning back. "You've got a Spirales face."

My brows knit. "And what exactly does that mean?"

He swirled the whiskey. "Sharp. Tired. Haunted."

I bit the inside of my cheek. "Sounds like half the people in this city."

"But it looks different on you," he said, eyes holding mine a second too long.

That's when I knew I had to go. I didn't like the way his words felt-too smooth, too easy, like they were slipping past my guard.

"Well," I said, stepping back, "thanks for the drink. Enjoy your night."

But before I could turn, he spoke again.

"You always this careful?"

My pulse stuttered. I forced a calm smile. "Only when men who smell like money and danger ask too many questions."

He laughed-low, genuine. "You're interesting, Lexa."

I didn't answer. I just walked away.

But my heart was thudding in my chest like a warning bell.

Behind the bar, Rosa raised a brow. "You okay?"

I nodded. "Just another customer."

She snorted. "That one? He looked like he eats customers for breakfast."

I didn't reply.

Because deep down... I had a feeling she was right.

And worse?

Some part of me wanted to be on the menu.

Later that evening, the music had become softer and the laughter had turned into tired sighs. I cleaned glasses like I always did-same motions, same rhythm-but my mind wasn't behind the bar anymore. It was still sitting at table six... staring back at me with sharp eyes and a crooked smile.

I told myself he was no one.

Just a man passing through. A face that would fade by morning.

But my gut was screaming something else.

I slipped into the storeroom to take a breath. The lights buzzed above my head. The mop bucket hadn't been emptied. The silence pressed against my ears, thick and loud; everywhere felt stuffy.

I pulled out my phone. Opened the browser.

Angelo Gueco. The name alone made my chest tighten. I typed it anyway. Then added: son.

It didn't take long to load.

LUCA GUECO, eldest son of Spirales' most feared mafia leader, returned from Milan last year to oversee family operations...

My hands went still.

The photo below the headline told me everything I needed to know.

The man in the booth.

The smirk.

The eyes.

Luca Gueco.

The son of the man who pulled the trigger, and helped murder my father.

I didn't realize I was shaking until my phone slipped out of my grip and hit the floor. The screen cracked.

I stared at the spiderweb lines across the glass like they were trying to tell me something.

You got too close. You let him speak to you. You let him say your name.

I didn't cry.

I'd stopped crying a long time ago.

But my lungs felt too small. My skin felt tight. I couldn't breathe inside this room anymore.

I grabbed my coat and stepped out the back door into the alley.

The night was colder than it had any right to be. I leaned against the brick wall, sucking in air like it owed me peace. Somewhere down the block, a car revved. Laughter trickled from a nearby club. But none of it touched me.

I was somewhere else.

Back on that marble floor...

Hands covered in blood...

Kneeling beside my father's body...

And now I'd just smiled at the son of his killer.

Worse is...I'd liked him.

I didn't sleep that night. I lay on the couch, still in my work clothes, staring at the ceiling fan and trying not to scream. My thoughts kept circling back to the same place.

He didn't recognize me.

Of course he didn't. I was seven when it happened. I was just a child... now I'm a woman. Different face. Different voice. I'm nothing like the girl who ran for her life.

But still-I couldn't stop thinking:

What if he does one day?

What happens then?