Chapter 2
Princess
M y fingers move over the keyboard rapidly as I try to figure out why the code keeps breaking when a knock echoes in my room.
Letting out a frustrated sigh, I run my hand through my hair. “Come in.”
As I look back at the white door, my brother, Kaito, pops his head in and gives me a smile that doesn’t quite reach his dark eyes.
“What are you doing?” he asks me.
I shrug and lean back into my chair. “Just trying to figure out why my code keeps breaking.”
He grimaces. “Not something I can help with, I’m afraid.”
Rolling my eyes, I reply, “I didn’t expect you to. You’re more of a musclehead than anything else.”
He lifts a singular brow before shaking his head and saying, “Don’t be disrespectful. Mother wants you to come down. Dinner’s about to be served.”
My gaze drifts back to the monitor with the flashing square saying, Error: the code you have entered will not run .
I roll my bottom lip between my teeth. “In a second. You go; I’ll be down in a minute.”
“Right. Just don’t be late. You know how Mother can get,” he tells me before shutting my room’s door.
“I know,” I whisper to myself, my thumb running over the fading bruise on my wrist.
Existing the coding program, I let the mouse cursor hover over the recent videos that I saved from my stalking session, debating if it would be worth a beating.
Shaking my head, I shut down my computer and let my hair down from the tight bun.
I look over what I’m wearing to make sure it’s not something that could cause my mother to lash out.
I’m in a pair of black jeans and a long-sleeved red top.
She was fine with it last night, but that doesn’t mean jack shit because if she doesn’t like it today, then I’ll be fucked.
Making my way out my bedroom, I try to jump a couple of steps just so I’m not late. I make it to my seat just in time for the grandfather clock to begin its chime. Just as it ends, Mother’s heels ring, her voice drifting in, and the sound of my father’s voice beside her follows.
“I told you, Giorgio. We shouldn’t let your brother control our business.” She stops at the entrance of the dining room, her heels tapping on the hard marble floor as her eyes scan the table before they stop on me and a scowl settles on her face.
“Hannah, dear, I told you it’s not that simple. Stefano holds a majority in both the company and the assets that we’re using for our benefit,” Dad tries to tell her, but she doesn’t pay any attention to him or his words.
“Princess.” Her voice cuts through the air like a whip, and I hold my breath.
What did I do now?
“Yes, Mother?” I ask, standing to my feet but making sure that I don’t meet her sharp gaze.
“Why does your hair look like a rat’s nest? I did tell you to take care of it before coming down for dinner every night, did I not?”
Swallowing down my nerves, I answer, “You did, but?—”
A sharp, stinging sensation cuts me off. I resist the urge to reach my hand out to try to soothe my cheek.
“Your apologies don’t work, Princess. Not when you keep repeating the same damn ungrateful attitude. Go to your room.”
My stomach clenches not only from her cold words, but also with a sharp pang of hunger.
The words aren’t new, but they still cut sharp as a razor dragging over old wounds.
I stare at the marble floor, at the faint smudge of my shoe against its pristine surface, and wonder if she’d notice if I screamed.
Probably not.
Swallowing down the lump in my throat, I push my chair back.
“Excuse me.” My voice is small, like it always is around her.
I take the spiral stairs, holding back my sobs. I won’t let her have the satisfaction of seeing me break down. Closing my door, I lean against it, pressing my forehead against the cold wood, and breathe.
In. Out. In. Out.
My cheek still burns. My mother’s voice still echoes. But here—in this place—she doesn’t exist.
I count to ten, listening for footsteps. Nothing.
Only then do I move. My fingers twist the wall-mounted lamp, and with a quiet click, the hidden panel shifts open. A breath of cool, stale air rushes out. My pulse steadies.
The room hums with a quiet, steady energy, almost like it’s alive.
Three and half years of watching him, and I’ve pieced together my little shrine.
Monitors are everywhere, each one blinking with his world in gray, grainy footage.
The screens show fragments of his life: the places he haunts, the people who orbit him like moths to a dangerous flame.
He doesn’t know it, but he’s under my watch, every move of his captured and catalogued.
I remember the first time I saw him. It was four years ago at a gala that my uncle had thrown. He wasn’t someone I found interesting from the first glance, but my gaze kept going back to him, as if I couldn’t look away.
Lucio’s the complete opposite of me. Reckless, loud, open with the way he acts, and doesn’t let anyone put him on a leash. I crave that sort of freedom, but I’m too much of a coward to go after what I truly want. So instead, I watch someone who practices his freedom with reckless abandon.
Across the room, my wall sprawls like a spider’s web.
Strings connect faces to places, pinned down with photos, notes, and the occasional napkin stained with something darker than ink.
The New York Camorra—his world, his family’s empire.
I know its veins, its paths, where they meet, where they splinter.
Every line, I’ve traced over and over with my fingers.
He’ll never see the lines as I do; he only walks them.
Under dim, buzzing lights, the shadows make everything look old, forgotten, and secret. I can smell the faint scent of old paper and ink, the tang of metal from tacks and clips. Each paper, each photo, is like a piece of him I’ve claimed, a fragment I’ve stolen without him even knowing.
To him, I’m invisible. To me, he’s everywhere. I take a seat behind the screen, and within seconds, I’m looking into his bedroom. There’s something about this that makes it feel so…intimate. I can see him, but he can’t see me, and that makes me feel incomprehensible things.
He’s sprawled on his bed, sheets hanging low on his hips. Bare skin, lean muscles covered in ink, all mine to watch. He has no idea. No clue that my gaze traces every inch of him, that my breath catches when he shifts, muscles flexing beneath tanned skin.
He’s right there. So close. So oblivious.
I zoom in on his face; he’s not asleep, but he’s just lying there.
He’ll usually leave for the gym in an hour or two and will stay there for a couple of hours before returning to his apartment, which is just enough time for me to sneak in and leave him some souvenirs.
I just hope that no one will come looking for me around the time I’m gone. I usually turn the shower on and lock the door before sneaking out from the window in the bathroom.
Instead of just sitting here and watching him, I go back into my actual room, closing the entrance to my secret room. Leaning back on the wall, I let out a long, loud sigh and rub my hand over my face.
I won’t cry. I. Will. Not. Cry.
Feeling like shit doesn’t resolve anything, and I refuse to sit here and cry about the…problems between me and my mother. It hasn’t ever gotten me anywhere before, and it won’t get me anywhere now.