Twisted Devotion

Chapter 1

1

ARIA

The gunmetal gates of our family home never let me forget who I am—a Rossi.

Since I returned, the name ‘Rossi’ has become heavier, more like a brand stamped onto me than a family legacy. When I left for school in America, it wasn’t this oppressive. Now, it shadows me wherever I go in this city.

I park my car and step out, adjusting my sunglasses against the glare of the midday sun. My gaze drifts to the mansion before me, an imposing monument of wealth and power, as familiar as it is alienating. Outside, a handful of guards stand like statues, silent, expressionless, unblinking.

When I first got back, I’d tried to connect with them. A joke here, a casual question about their families or hobbies there. But all I ever got in response were grunts, huffs, and a lot of blank stares. Now, I don’t even bother.

As I step into the cavernous foyer, a guard follows with my bags—a collection of indulgences from my morning shopping spree. It’s how I fill the void when the house feels too big, too cold, and too empty. Wandering through boutiques and spending money has become a pastime.

The sudden ring of my phone shatters the silence, dragging me out of my thoughts. Fishing it from the back pocket of my jeans, I glance at the screen. ‘Big Brother’ flashes across it in bold letters.

A mischievous smile curls my lips as I answer. “Marco, do you think the blonde bodyguard and the redhead are screwing? I swear I saw them holding hands earlier.”

There’s a pause on the other end—a heavy, telling silence. “Aria,” Marco finally says, his tone devoid of humor. “There’s an event tonight. You will attend.”

I roll my eyes. What was I expecting? A laugh? A sly “I thought the same thing?” Marco isn’t built for banter. He speaks only when necessary, just long enough to make his point. Never more. Never less.

I sigh and lean against the cold marble wall.

What I need are friends. Or a hobby. Or, if the stars align, maybe even a boyfriend.

The word boyfriend sends a strange flutter through my chest. Is there really a man out there who wouldn’t tremble at the weight of the Rossi name? Someone who wouldn’t shrink under the shadow of my family’s reputation? A man who could look me in the eye and see me, not the infamous daughter of a powerful family?

Fuck . The word almost makes me laugh. I can’t even remember the last time I did that.

Now that I’m back home, the idea of finding someone who isn’t intimidated or opportunistic feels laughable. What kind of man would willingly tangle with the rumored precious Rossi daughter? Maybe someone living under a rock, far removed from the legends and whispers that follow my family.

“Aria,” Marco’s sharp tone jolts me from my thoughts, a thread of impatience curling around my name like a warning.

I clear my throat, straightening as though he can see me through the phone. “What time is the event?”

“Eight. Wear something that stands out.”

Code for: Look pretty. Be seen.

I don’t know what Marco gains from parading me around like some trophy, but I like to think it’s his version of sibling bonding. He’s all I have left now—my only family, my only connection in this city. And I’m desperate enough to take what I can get.

At the end of the day, I don’t have friends. I don’t have hobbies. And I certainly don’t have a boyfriend. What I have is a brother. And if attending his events is what he asks of me, I’ll do it.

“Got it. I’ll be ready,” I reply, softer than I intended.

“Good.” The line goes dead before I can add anything else.

Marco never says it outright, but I know exactly what I am to him: a prop, a carefully crafted distraction for his games, the charming, oblivious little sister who smiles, nods, and never asks the wrong questions.

I’ve tried to ignore the hollowness of it and embrace my role as the obedient sibling. But I can’t help wondering how much longer I’ll have to keep this up before Marco truly sees me. Even a little.

It wasn’t always like this. When we were kids—when Papa was still alive—Marco wasn’t so cold, so untouchable. But since Papa’s death, everything has changed.

I glance at one of the guards as I descend the grand staircase into the foyer. His cold, impassive gaze locks onto mine, and a chill runs down my spine. I look away quickly, my stomach twisting with unease.

For the first time, a thought takes root, unwelcome and unnerving.

Maybe the guards stationed here aren’t just protecting the house.

Maybe they’re watching me , too.

I shake my head, trying to dispel the uneasy thought. Instead, I focus on the task at hand—what to wear for tonight. After all, I’ve got a fresh haul to choose from. Being a Rossi does have its perks, like the ability to buy almost anything I want .

Three hours later, I stand in front of the mirror, tugging at the hem of a midnight-blue dress that hugs me like a second skin. The fabric gleams under the light, its plunging neckline daring but not indecent. It’s the kind of dress that commands attention—just enough to make a statement without crossing the line.

I reach for my red lipstick, swiping on a bold, dramatic, and undeniably memorable shade. It’s the kind of red that leaves marks on glasses—and in men's imaginations. Slipping into sleek heels, I admire how they elongate my already long legs.

A knock sounds at the door, perfectly on time.

“Miss Aria,” comes the voice from the hallway. “Mr. Marco has sent a driver to pick you up.”

“I’m on my way,” I call back.

Before leaving, I grab the small taser Marco insists I carry and tuck it into my clutch. His paranoia—or foresight, depending on how you view it—has become second nature to me.

I descend in the elevator downstairs and step outside to find the black limo waiting. The driver stands by the open door, his posture stiff and formal. Without a word, I slide into the back seat.

The drive to the venue is a blur of city lights and silence so thick it’s almost oppressive. The engine's hum and the faint glow of passing streetlights do little to soothe the strange tension bubbling in my chest. By the time we arrive, I’m desperate to escape the car, even if it’s just to endure Marco’s cold, clipped conversation.

The venue looms before me, its grandeur illuminated under the soft glow of ornate lights. I step out of the car and pause, taking in the sight. I’ve attended more of these events than I can count, each more lavish than the last. But this one manages to catch me off guard.

Wow.

Large crystal chandeliers hang like jewels from the vaulted ceiling, casting a soft, glittering light over the room. The women in their sequin designer gowns shimmer with every movement, their dresses catching and amplifying the sparkle. Paired with the golden rails of the grand stairwell, the chandeliers, and the glittering gowns, the entire space seems to glow like it’s been spun from gold and stars.

It’s breathtaking.

The air is rich with the mingling scents of expensive colognes, perfumes, and the faintest hint of champagne. Men in impeccably tailored suits dot the room, their polished shoes reflecting the opulent surroundings. Some of them glance my way as I enter, their gazes lingering just a moment too long. I offer a polite smile but avoid holding eye contact for more than a fleeting second.

Across the room, I spot Marco by the bar. He’s impossible to miss—my brother always knows how to stand out. While most men are dressed in dark, conservative suits, Marco has opted for a light blue tuxedo that sets him apart. His dark hair brushes just past his shoulders, adding to his effortlessly commanding presence.

For a moment, I wonder if he deliberately matched my midnight-blue dress or if it’s just a coincidence.

Drawing a deep breath, I straighten my posture and start toward him. As I move through the room, more heads turn. I can feel their stares, but I keep my shoulders square and chin high. The man Marco is speaking with notices me approaching and gives him a subtle nudge.

Marco turns, his sharp eyes sweeping over me. “You look… acceptable,” he says, his tone as flat as ever. He leans in to kiss my cheeks, and the gesture is so mechanical that it feels rehearsed. Before he pulls away, he murmurs into my ear, “Someone important is coming today. I need you to keep your ears open.”

I nod once, slipping seamlessly into the role he needs me to play: from the sister who smiles and obeys to the one who listens and observes.

I drift into the crowd, weaving through clusters of elegantly dressed guests. Familiar faces greet me, and I smile back, engaging in brief exchanges that mean absolutely nothing. Eye contact is limited to three seconds—no more, no less.

But my real focus isn’t on the surface-level pleasantries. It’s on the whispers beneath them, the murmurings people are too cautious to say outright. The fragments of truth hidden between hollow conversations.

“I hear there have been attacks…”

“They’re growing bolder.”

“He will be here tonight…”

I keep weaving through the crowd, my ears tuned to the undercurrent of hushed voices. Over the years, I’ve trained myself to sift through the noise, picking out the tidbits of information that matter most. Names, alliances, whispered deals—all the things Marco would want to know.

And I’m determined to be useful to him.

From across the room, I spot a group of men locked in intense discussion. Their faces are unfamiliar, and their postures are subtly guarded. They're exactly the type I'm looking for.

If I’m right, they won’t recognize me—at least, not immediately. As I approach, I catch snippets of their conversation. It’s in English, thankfully. My Italian has grown rusty over the years.

I draw their attention with a practiced tilt of my head and a soft lifting laugh. “Now, what are you boys talking about?” I ask, twirling the stem of my champagne glass between my fingers. My tone is light and teasing. “Or is this one of those boys-only conversations?”

One of them turns to face me, his eyes dipping briefly to the neckline of my dress before meeting mine. My heart skips as his gaze lingers just a little too long, a flicker of something—recognition?—crossing his face. But then he chuckles and steps closer, his expression relaxing.

Good. He doesn’t know who I am.

“Nothing you’d be interested in, sweetheart,” he says with a wink.

I tilt my head, my smile widening as I lean in, lowering my voice to a conspirational whisper. “Try me.”

His hand slides to my waist, pulling me closer. A cold, uncomfortable sensation spreads through me at his touch, but I swallow the instinctive revulsion, keeping my smile firmly in place.

“Word is, something’s coming. Something big,” the man says, his voice dropping even lower as though the very word could summon danger. He glances over his shoulder, hesitating before continuing. “Something we haven’t seen since… since Nicolas took over from his father.”

“Nicolas?” I repeat, frowning.

The air in the room shifts the moment his name leaves my lips. It’s not subtle—it’s as if the atmosphere itself paused to listen. Conversations falter, heads swivel toward the grand entrance, and even the music playing in the background fades to a muted hum.

And then, he enters.

A man strides through the massive doors, commanding the space with nothing but his presence.

It’s similar to the reaction Marco inspires, but this…this is on a different level. The aura surrounding him is heavier, sharper, and more commanding. Instinctively, I know—this is the ‘important’ person Marco mentioned.

He’s tall, with broad shoulders that make him seem larger than life. His black suit is flawlessly tailored, emphasizing his frame, while the crisp white shirt beneath it is left open at the collar, a calculated touch of defiance. His dark hair is immaculately combed, and his jawline is so sharp it looks like it could cut glass.

My God, he’s a sight to behold.

But it’s not just his striking looks that catch my attention. It’s the scar.

A faint slash cuts across his right cheek, subtle but unmistakable. It doesn’t detract from his appearance; it adds an edge to his already imposing presence. The scar whispers of battles fought and won, of danger lurking beneath his polished exterior.

A shiver runs down my spine as I take him in. For the first time, I realize there is someone in this room who feels even more dangerous than my brother.

His expression is unreadable, almost bored, as his sharp gaze sweeps across the room. When he moves, it’s with the deliberate precision of a predator heading towards someone with a singular purpose.

I can’t look away.

“Don Nicolas Paolo, capo dei capi ,” a voice murmurs beside me, low and reverent.

Startled, I turn to find a woman standing close. Her beauty is as striking as the man’s. A deep red gown hugs her figure, and her dark hair cascades over one shoulder in effortless waves.

“Elena,” she introduces herself, her lips curving into a smile.

“Aria,” I reply, smiling back, relieved to have someone to talk to amidst the tension. “Nice to meet you.”

Her gaze flickers back to the man, then returns to me, her smile widening. “He’s quite the looker, isn’t he?”

I lift an eyebrow in silent agreement, and she chuckles softly.

“That,” she says, her voice dropping to a whisper, “is Nicolas Paolo. The man every woman in this room desires…and every man envies.”

I follow her gaze, my breath hitching as my eyes lock onto him. At that exact moment, his dark eyes begin slowly scouring the room—cold, calculating, and utterly indifferent—until they land on me.

The moment his gaze meets mine, it feels as if time stops. The air thickens, pressing down on me like a weight. There’s something primal in the way he looks at me, something that makes me feel like prey caught in the sights of a predator.

I look away first.

“Careful, Aria,” Elena murmurs, her voice low and edged with warning. “Men like Nicolas don’t ask. They take. And as beautiful as he is, his name inspires as much fear in men as ‘Rossi’ does. He’s someone you don’t forget.”

I glance at her, studying her carefully. Does she know I’m a Rossi? Her beauty is striking, the kind that’s impossible to forget. I would have remembered her if we’d crossed paths before.

Before I can ask, she beats me to it.

“Everyone knows who he is, but you don’t,” she says, her eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“I spent time abroad,” I reply smoothly. “But I haven’t seen you around either.”

“I wasn’t here for a while,” she says with a small, enigmatic smile. “Now, I’m back.”

I open my mouth to press for more, but another voice interrupts.

“Elena!”

Someone calls her name from across the room. She turns toward the source, her smile brightening as she waves. Then she looks back at me.

“Excuse me,” she says politely before slipping away, leaving me alone again.

I glance around the room, feeling suddenly isolated and vulnerable, but my brother is nowhere to be found; neither is the mysterious Nicolas Paolo.

I set my glass down and scan the room, searching for a way to escape. The balcony door is slightly ajar, and I seize the opportunity.

Once outside, I take a deep breath, immersing myself in the view. Strings of delicate lights wind along the stone railing, and the city sprawls below, glittering in the darkness. I exhale slowly, allowing the tension to slip from my shoulders.

For a moment, there’s peace.

Then I hear a soft shuffle behind me. My pulse quickens; I’m no longer alone. I turn, scanning the shadows for the source of the sound.

Standing there is the last person I expect to see.

Nicolas Paolo.

He leans casually against the far corner, one hand tucked into his pocket. The scar on his cheek catches the faint light, and his sharp eyes meet mine.

He doesn’t look away.

For a moment, I’m speechless. I just stare at him, and he stares back as if daring me to speak first.

I wonder if he realizes who I am. After all, it seems everyone knows him.

He steps forward into the light, revealing more of himself than I’d noticed at first glance. He’s devastatingly handsome. His dark blue eyes impossible to ignore. His presence is magnetic, yet there’s something dangerous about it, too, like I’m standing too close to fire. A very, very handsome fire.

This fire draws my gaze even though I try to look away.

"Enjoying the view?" his rich baritone voice breaks the silence.

I blush and quickly avert my eyes. “I was just wondering what you’re doing here.”

“I needed some air, too,” he says in a voice smooth as silk. “The falsity in there is unbearable.”

I give him a skeptical once-over. “You don’t seem like the kind of man who minds falsity.”

He takes a measured step closer. His movements are deliberate and calculated. “Hm. And what kind of man do I seem like?”

I tilt my head, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “The kind who thrives at events like this.”

“Wow, that’s rich coming from someone like you.” His voice sharpens, losing its earlier teasing tone.

The shift in his demeanor catches me off guard. “Someone like me?”

“Pretty ornaments,” he says, his eyes raking over me. “Useful for decorating a room, but not much else. Ready to spread your legs for the next big thing.”

I feel the anger surge through me, blinding and sharp. How dare he?

“You don’t even know me.” I sound defensive, maybe a little hypocritical, since I had just tried to read him, but I wasn’t cruel about it.

“I don’t have to. Everyone here can see it.”

“What?” My fingers clench deeper around my purse, and for a moment, I wonder what will happen if I pull out my taser and use it on him.

Of course, the thought is absurd, as jail or worse would await me if I acted on it. So, instead, I settle on using my words.

“You’re not much different from any of the men in there. You’re just another asshole who thinks with his cock and acts on impulse.” I spit the words out.

He steps closer, his aftershave and cologne lingering in the air. It’s a masculine scent, and I know I won’t forget it anytime soon.

“Careful,” he says with a slow, knowing smile. “You don’t want to cross any lines—I don’t think you can handle the consequences.”

That smile pisses me off. His casual arrogance cuts deep, and it’s hard to ignore. “Maybe you should save your threats for someone who cares.”

For a moment, his expression remains unreadable. Then, his mouth curves into a slow, mocking smile. His gaze lingers on my lips just a bit too long, and I hate how it makes me feel. “Brave,” he says, as though it’s a mocking insult. “Or stupid.”

The space between us feels oppressive, closing in with every second. I open my mouth to respond, but an angry voice cuts through the tension before I can.

“What the fuck is going on here?!” it demands, sharp and biting.