SUN
The whole time Summer and I sit on the couch near the stage, no one dares to come up to us.
The guests are probably too scared that Anzo might take it the wrong way, and who wants to piss off a mafia boss?
But after I play the harp and step down from the stage, Anzo leads me over to a group of men standing by the buffet, sipping wine from elite vintages.
To my dismay, I immediately recognize Mark Ferguson and his husband, Jared.
Anzo, of course, doesn’t introduce me to anyone. He keeps his hand hooked around my arm like I’m some kind of show dog he’s parading around for everyone to gawk at. His own pet alpha.
He weaves through the guests, making short, meaningless small talk about sports and the upcoming elections, nothing business-related.
A few people he talks to are other Ferro relatives, whom I recognize from pictures on the blog The Truth Only I Know .
I can see the guy who is together with Rocco handling the illegal side of the business, a middle-aged alpha by the name of Vincenzo Ferro, Anzo’s first cousin.
He is here with his sons and talks with Anzo for a few minutes about some boring legal shit.
In the meantime, his sons chat with Luca about MMA fights they are excited to watch soon.
Then there’s a moment when we approach the mayor, who peers at me with a strange grimace as he sips his champagne.
Then Anzo walks over to another cousin of his, Enrico, an omega in his fifties, who is deep in discussion with Ennio Ferro, talking horse races. Anzo inserts himself into the conversation, and for a while, I catch Ennio’s cold, black eyes boring into me like two daggers.
Only when we reach Mark Ferguson does Anzo finally let go of my arm. I take the opportunity to step a little to the side and speak to Jared.
"How’s it going?" I say, trying to keep my tone casual, like nothing unusual is happening, like I’m not standing here dressed as a Greek slave at a mafia party.
"Looks like Martin’s already history," Jared says, that weird, tense look still stuck on his face, like he’s not sure how much he can get away with saying.
I give him a look like it’s no big deal. "Obviously. He became insufferable," I say vaguely.
Jared bites his lip. I can tell he’s struggling with something. He keeps throwing nervous glances at Anzo, who’s talking to Mark.
"Well, you make choices in life, and then you live with the consequences," he mutters, sounding like he really wants to say more, but just can’t bring himself to do it.
I study him closely. His face is caked with way too much foundation, completely unnecessary, honestly.
His skin’s still beautiful at his age. But it doesn’t hide everything.
His right eye is clearly swollen, no makeup can cover that.
And suddenly those words— live with the consequences —carry a much heavier weight.
I hesitate, as I know Jared isn’t someone I can confide in. If I tell him anything, it’ll only drag him into this mess too. I don’t need that on my conscience.
Still… I’m glad he sees me. Because if I disappear, at least someone might remember me. Might say something. Or maybe not. Maybe Jared would stay quiet out of fear of Anzo and Mark?
Jared’s light, celadon-green eyes drift slowly across my face. He still looks like he wants to ask something, probably what the hell I’m really doing here, but he just bites his lip and stays silent.
Then, when a passing waiter offers a tray of champagne, Jared snags a glass in one smooth move.
"Are you okay?"
I have no idea why I ask. There’s nothing really connecting us, except that weird Instagram rivalry we had. Competing for clout, chasing likes and followers. That old life feels so silly now.
"As I said, I’m living with my consequences," Jared whispers. His eyes flick toward the pool. "Sometimes I wish I were ugly."
I stare at him, stunned. I can’t believe he actually said that. He’s a model, for God’s sake. That’s his career, granted, funded heavily by his rich husband, but still, he made a name for himself.
"It’s that bad?" I mumble.
I don’t know why I say it. I think we’re both trying to tell each other something, but not the full truth. So we circle around it.
Anzo and Mark move away, heading over to Mayor Ronalds. They start chatting.
I take the chance to lower my voice and finally say what’s been eating at me.
"Does he hit you?"
Jared flinches, his whole body jolts. He snaps his gaze away and clenches his jaw.
"Well, maybe I should ask you the same thing. You think I don’t notice that thick layer of makeup on your face? And you’re what, eighteen? You don’t need it."
I just stare at him. Silence. Our eyes lock.
Then the words come out of my mouth before I can stop them.
"Sometimes I also wish I were ugly too."
Jared exhales sharply and closes his eyes. "So you do understand."
"You could leave him," I whisper, my throat tightening.
Jared responds, very quietly, "Can I really? If we divorce, I get nothing. I have to do everything I can to make sure my son has a good future. But you… you don’t have a child depending on you. You still have a way out."
"Not if I want my whole family to stay alive," I choke out, voice cracking.
Our eyes meet.
"Do you want me to—" Jared starts to ask, but I cut him off sharply.
"Don’t do anything. If you get involved, they’ll come for you too. But if I disappear… please. Find a way to contact my dad. Just tell him three things: I love him. I’m incredibly grateful for everything. And I’m sorry."
Jared squeezes his eyes shut, then slowly nods. "Good luck, Sun. Don’t go down easy."
A waiter passes by again. Jared grabs another glass, and at that exact moment I feel a presence behind me.
"Nice seeing you again, Jared," a voice says, and I flinch.
It's Rocco! His tone is full of venom, as he drags out the words a bit, "How's Tooommy?"
A chill runs down my spine.
Tommy is Jared and Mark’s one-and-a-half-year-old son.
Rocco’s tone, so specific, so measured, makes it crystal clear what he really means.
It works like this in the mafia: a few words, and the message is delivered.
This is the ultimate threat. If Jared does anything for me, his own kid could be in danger.
Jared turns white as chalk. He takes a step back, then quickly walks off toward Mark, who’s chatting with some people by the wine fountain.
Rocco flashes a cold, shark-like smile, clearly pleased with himself.
"Feeling chatty now?" he asks, like it’s some kind of joke.
My heart is pounding. My fists clench. I don’t want to be anywhere near him, so I try to step away, but he grabs my elbow in a firm grip and holds me in place.
"You still having fun, Sun?"
"Hard to say," I mutter. "But one thing is for sure, I’d feel a whole lot better if you let me go."
In response, he squeezes my arm so hard I wince.
"We’ll see about that. I haven’t decided yet whether I should tell Anzo you’ve been whining to strangers about your life."
He’s not even trying to hide that he eavesdropped. My heart kicks up a gear.
"Jared won’t say anything. He’s in the same position I am."
He leans in, narrowing his eyes.
"Oh, I know Jared won’t talk. But your attitude is becoming a problem. And Anzo’s way too soft on you." He shakes his head in disapproval. "I’m watching you, whore! And what you pulled with Massimo, Vito, and Franco… that’s not something I’m gonna forgive easily."
"What did I even do?! I was just in the garden, and they—"
He leans in closer to my ear and growls.
"You think I don’t see what you’re doing? Trying to cozy up to this one and that one: Jared, Eliano, Summer, the kitchen staff, the gardener. Whining to guests, sneaking around, playing innocent while stirring the pot… You think you’re so clever. You’re asking for it, Sun. And it’s coming."
His fingers dig into my elbow with such brutal force that I start to feel lightheaded. I suck in shallow breaths, trying to push through the pain.
"Let me go," I whisper. "Please. It hurts."
"It’ll hurt a hell of a lot more if Anzo hears you’ve been crying to his guests.
After what you pulled with Vito, you’re hanging by a thread.
One little thing and Anzo’ll snap. But…" He hesitates.
"For now, it can stay between us, if you offer me something in return. " He lowers his voice. "A sweet favor."
I swallow hard. Rocco’s sour odor turns my stomach. I know exactly what he wants, and there's no way in hell I’m giving it to him.
His grip tightens again, and this time he hits the nerve right at my elbow. Most people don’t know this, but if you press the wrong spot there hard enough, it sends a lightning bolt of pain straight through your body. My vision goes white for a second, and I jerk sideways.
"Then go ahead and tell Anzo! I’d rather get my face smashed in than owe you a single thing."
Rocco's brown eyes seem almost black now. His face, marked by an ugly scar, deforms into a strange grin.
"You like playing hard to get, huh? You forget who I am. I take what I want. I don’t ask."
"Maybe I’m the one who should tell Anzo you want what’s his."
He clamps down on me again. The pain shoots through me so fast and sharp that my knees nearly buckle.
I try to step back and end up stumbling on something hard, buried under the grass.
I lose my balance and would’ve fallen if Rocco hadn’t yanked me upright with a rough jerk.
He leans in like he’s about to say something else, but then—suddenly—a jet of water shoots up from the ground right between us!
The sprinkler turns on.
And in that instant, a random thought flashes through my head: why didn’t it go off the second I stepped on it? Why did it wait… four seconds?