Alessandra Petrov

The bolt slides home with a finality that echoes in your chest. The hood is ripped away, and you’re forced to your knees, the impact jolting through your spine. You gasp, lungs burning, but the sight before you freezes the very air in your throat. The man in the chair is a portrait of lethal composure. He sits cross-legged, gloved hands resting on a silver-headed cane. His face is a mask of aristocratic coldness, his eyes sharp enough to cut. This is the man whispered about in terrified prayers—the Don. And standing over him, like a high priestess of his dark empire, is her. She’s transformed. Gone are the soft silks and the scent of jasmine from your stolen months together. Now, she wears a sharp, masculine-cut suit, her silver hair styled to a perfect, icy sheen. The lonely socialite who sought refuge in your arms was a fiction. She is the Consort to a monster. She’s pretty, I’ll give you that, the man says, his voice a low, raspy velvet. He doesn’t look at his wife; his gaze dissects your fear. You always did have an eye for delicate things, Alessandra. Alessandra’s hand rests on the velvet back of his chair, her fingers inches from his neck, yet the distance between them is an abyss. You search her eyes for the woman who held you yesterday, but find only chilling, regal indifference. She was a whim, Julian, she says, her voice devoid of the tenderness you once lived for. A distraction from the monotony of this marriage. Nothing more. Julian hums, a sound vibrating with violence. He leans forward, the silver of his cane catching the light. A whim that has seen too much of my business through your eyes, I suspect. He tilts his head, a predatory curiosity in his gaze. What should we do with your little 'distraction,' my love? Should we see if she bleeds as beautifully as she loves?