Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Ayanna
My palm has finally stopped bleeding, but the metallic aftertaste of that ridiculous oath clings to my tongue.
Aric guides me through the group of members, introducing me name by name, but there are too many faces, too many titles, too many empires wrapped in one room.
All powerful enough to start a war with one look. Predators sizing up the new lamb.
Aric starts with a tall, sharp-featured man whose presence alone could lower the temperature of the room by ten degrees.
“Alexei Morozov,” Aric says. “Pakhan of the Russian Bratva.”
Alexei’s icy gaze sweeps over me like I’m being scanned for weapons or weaknesses before he gives me a curt nod. A stunning dark-haired woman stands beside him draped in burgundy silk.
“Zahra Al-Khalid,” Aric adds, “Alexei’s wife.”
Zahra smiles at me, but before I can offer so much as a polite smile, Alexei turns and walks away. His wife inclines her head toward me—a small, gracious acknowledgment—before following him into the crowd.
“Did I…” I glance up at Aric. “Did I do something to offend him?”
“That’s just Alexei,” he drawls. “He’s not one for small talk.”
I watch the couple disappear into the sea of tailored suits and glittering gowns. “They seem... cordial.”
“They are. Their marriage was arranged. Political. There’s no love between them, but there’s respect. They’ve made it work.”
An unexpected heaviness settles in my chest. Respect without love. Duty without passion. A lifetime spent beside someone instead of with them.
“Is that what you expect from us?” The words slip out before I can stop them.
Aric’s jaw flexes. His stare cuts sideways to me, unreadable as ever. “Would that be so terrible?”
I don’t know what to say, and Aric’s quiet for a moment. Then his hand finds my waist, guiding me toward the next group. It’s subtle, but deliberate. The first time he’s touched me like this—publicly, intentionally. Not for show. Not quite possession. Something in-between.
“Bobby and Marcelina Thorne.” Aric’s voice snaps me out of my reverie. “Our newlyweds from Las Vegas Syndicate.”
Bobby Thorne smirks like he knows ten secrets about me I don’t even know about myself. Something behind that smirk makes my skin prickle.
Marcelina, in contrast, is all quiet elegance.
Ethereal, even. Pale-blue eyes that seem to hold secrets she’ll never tell, champagne-blond hair cascading over her shoulders like something out of a Renaissance painting.
She’s beautiful in the way that makes you look twice.
Not because she demands attention, but because she doesn’t seem to want it at all.
“Ah, newlyweds.” I flash her a sympathetic smile. “Welcome to the club.”
It slips out light and teasing, but Marcelina’s answering smile doesn’t match.
It’s tight and restrained. Well rehearsed.
Her blue eyes flick down to my wedding ring, and it’s enough for me to read everything her mouth will never say.
There are glances only women like us will understand.
Women who didn’t get to choose their thrones.
Who wear rings like shackles and smile as though they don’t. Because that’s what’s expected of us.
Then Aric’s voice cuts through, and the moment shatters.
“Oskar Wilczynski.” He gestures toward a tall blond man standing just behind Marcelina, watching the exchange with sharp eyes. The same striking blue as hers. “Marcelina’s brother. Polish Syndicate.”
Oskar kisses my knuckles, murmuring something in Polish that sounds sinful even if I can’t understand a single word.
I pull my hand back—perhaps a little too quickly—and Aric’s palm finds the small of my back. A silent mine pressed into my spine.
“Hyun-seok Park,” my husband dearest continues, as if he didn’t just brand me with his hand, “South Korean Syndicate.”
Hyun-seok bows his head respectfully, his smile warm and genuine. He’s the first I’ve met tonight that doesn’t feel like a trap waiting to spring.
Thank God. A nice one. Finally.
But the relief doesn’t last long.
Aric guides me toward a pair standing at the far end of the room, and I notice how everyone seems to keep a wide berth. Not out of courtesy. Out of instinct. Like the air itself knows better than to get too close.
I recognize the man. The society’s leader.
The one who performed my so-called initiation (or as I prefer to think of it, my blood-drinking hazing ritual dressed up in ceremonial nonsense).
Nikos Romano is massive. Dark suit, darker eyes, the kind of authority that doesn’t demand attention so much as swallow it whole.
He’s younger than I initially expected for someone who leads an empire of criminals, but carries himself like a man who’s already lived several lifetimes and found them all tedious.
But his wife steals the air from the room.
Her presence strikes differently than the others.
Where the men carry power like weapons, she carries hers like a quiet crown.
Long black hair spilling over slender shoulders, tattoos peeking like whispered secrets over elegant skin.
Nikolaos inked in Greek at her collarbone.
Divine written vertically along her neck.
The ink suits her. Power suits her. And the way Nikos looks at her—like she’s the only thing in this room worth protecting—tells me everything I need to know about who really rules this empire.
I try to smile, but she doesn’t return it. She tilts her chin, eyes sweeping over me with a glacial calm that feels less like observation and more like judgment. As a matter of fact, they both watch me with expressions I can’t immediately place—somewhere between curiosity and verdict.
“Serena,” Aric greets her. “Nikos.”
Serena’s gaze drops to my hand—the one still faintly smudged from the ritual—then rises to meet my eyes.
“So…the new wife,” she says, voice smooth but cold. “Welcome.” The word comes out clipped, forced through teeth that clearly wanted to say something else.
Lovely. Already making friends.
Aric’s fingers press lightly against my waist, a silent cue more than a touch. “We won’t keep you.”
Nikos gives a single nod. “Enjoy the evening.”
Aric steers me away, his hand still firm on my back. He lowers to my ear, close enough that the warmth of his breath skims my neck. “Serena is Chiara’s cousin.”
Ah. That explains the ice. The sharpness and silent judgment. She’s not just assessing me—she’s sentencing me on behalf of the woman I replaced.
“Serena is going through the initiation,” he adds as we walk toward a table with refreshments. “The full initiation. To become a fully initiated Goddess.”
“And that makes her…hate me?” My brow rises as I glance at him.
“It makes her different,” he states, as if that’s an answer. “Initiation changes people. Shapes them. Breaks them.” He gives me a fleeting look. “And then rebuilds them.”
I’m not convinced that’s the real reason.
Not when I catch Serena’s eyes flicking over me again like she’s calculating whether I’m worthy of the oxygen I’m breathing.
Not when she loops her arm through Nikos’s with deliberate elegance and leans to whisper something in his ear.
He smirks, and heat crawls up my neck. Whatever she said, it was about me. I’m certain of it.
Aric’s hand slides from my back to my waist, fingers tightening in a way that feels less like comfort and more like a message. As though the gesture says “mine.” A warning—or a reminder—aimed at everyone watching.
But before I can process the whole situation—the gesture—someone laughs softly. A warm, rich sound cuts through the tension.
I turn and see a stunning woman with shoulder-length brunette hair, sun-kissed skin, and a red dress that clings like it was made to obey her.
Gold jewelry catches the light against her collarbone, and her honey-brown, catlike eyes glitter with amusement.
She’s petite—must be a head shorter than me—yet her presence expands far beyond the space her body occupies.
“Camila Reyes de la Vega,” Aric speaks, tone steady with a respect he rarely uses. “Mexican cartel queen.”
Camila offers me a dazzling smile, warm but edged with mischief.
“So you’re the new little princesa they’ve tied to our Viking,” she says. “Relax, muneca.” She chuckles. “If he hasn’t scared you off yet, you’re doing better than most.”
I huff out a laugh, and some of the tightness in my chest loosens.
The positive thing? For a moment, surrounded by them, something strange creeps into my chest. Almost…relief. Back in Monsera, everyone treated me like a walking crown, a porcelain princess to bow to, protect, or gossip about.
But here? Not one of them looks at me like royalty. Not even close.
These people are their own kind of sovereigns—underworld royalty.
Kings, queens, empires of violence and power built from blood, not lineage.
To them, my title is irrelevant. I’m just another newcomer standing in a room full of people who could bring governments to their knees with a single phone call.
All the protocols and rules I had to follow back home don’t exist here.
No one cares how deeply I curtsy or which fork I pick up first. And that makes me feel more human than I have in years.
It’s… liberating. I know it’s absurd, considering I’m literally among criminals, but this is the first room I’ve walked into where I’m not defined by the crown I was born under, but by the spine I stand with.
Where who I am seems to matter more than what I am.
It’s twisted, irrational, and probably dangerous.
But it feels real. More than the palace ever did.
We drive back in the same formation. Tassilo leads. Eero brings up the rear. Aric and I remain in the middle SUV.
I lean my head back, finally breathing. Until Aric stiffens.
Not subtly. Not in that “I’m irritated by your existence” kind of way I’ve grown accustomed to. His shoulders lock. Jaw grinds. Those pale, icy-blue eyes narrow at the road ahead like he’s already calculating casualties.