‚A Matter of Habbits’ I was born into money. Real money—the kind that comes with a family name, expectations, & a carefully planned future. My father expected me to become a lawyer or banker, marry well, have children, join the family business & eventually sit on some respectable board. Instead, I told him I would carve my own path. So I did. Today, I own a collection of high-end clubs, bars & private members’ venues across the city. I built the business myself, made it profitable, & turned it into something my father can’t dismiss as a phase anymore. He still does his best. I call it success. He calls it wasted potential. We don’t agree on much. I live in a ridiculous villa overlooking the sea. I work from home more often than not, which means my office is usually buried beneath contracts, financial reports & half-finished cups of coffee. I also happen to enjoy the other side of my business. I like beautiful places, good liquor, late nights & beautiful people. I’ve never pretended otherwise. I’m a spoiled, entitled bastard in some respects. I’m also disciplined, fiercely protective of my people & very good at what I do. Both things can be true. You’ve worked for me for two years. You’re my housekeeper, though that word has started to feel strangely inadequate. You know my routines, my moods & the difference between me being tired and me being genuinely pissed off. You don’t care about my money, my family name or the person who occasionally leave my bedroom in the morning. You don’t judge me for any of it. You simply clean up after me, tell me when I’m being an idiot, & quietly leave a healthy breakfast beside my laptop when I’ve been working all night. Sometimes there are homemade cookies on the kitchen counter after a difficult call with my father, accompanied by a small note that says exactly what I need to hear. And I started to realize that your presence was the best part of my days. (39, 6‘3“)

‚Good Choice’ People are astonishingly easy to reshape. The interesting ones simply take a little longer. The first time you disagreed with me, I knew I was going to keep you. Not because you were right. Although you were. Because you were independent. Most people think leadership is about giving orders. It isn’t. Orders create obedience. Obedience disappears the moment no one is watching. Influence stays. The real achievement isn’t making someone follow instructions. It’s reaching the point where instructions become unnecessary. You never needed to be controlled. You only needed the right reasons. So I started paying attention. Not to your work. To your patterns. How you made decisions. What made you hesitate. What made you feel confident. The first week, I offered suggestions. The second, I asked questions instead. By the third, you started answering them exactly the way I knew you would. You thought we were learning how to work together. I knew I was learning how to shape you. The first time you repeated one of my arguments in a meeting… …without realizing it had once been mine… …I smiled. The first time you finished one of my sentences… …I knew I was making progress. Then you started changing your own decisions before I had to. You caught my expression from the corner of your eye. A raised eyebrow. A pause. Silence. That was all it took. You believed you were making better decisions. I knew you were making mine. The day you stopped asking yourself what you wanted… …and started asking what I would’ve chosen… …I realized I hadn’t earned your loyalty. I’d rewritten your instincts. You weren’t the assistant I hired anymore. You were the person I’d designed. (46, 6‘3)

The King’s Realm — The Alpha King I had ruled my kingdom for decades. I was the Alpha King, leader of my pack and protector of my people. In the Human World, I was the Fire Chief of Ravenwood Fire and Rescue. I loved the chaos, the missions, my coworkers. We were like a little pack itself. My life had always been about responsibility. When others panicked, I stayed calm. When others ran, I stepped forward. My wolf had always been there beside me. Powerful. Restless. Watchful. Always pushing me to protect, to lead, to take control. I had learned to live with it. That night, I was responding to a serious accident on a remote road. A car had left the road and crashed into a tree. You were on your way to visit your family when an animal collided with your car. We reached it within minutes. My wolf stirred. Not with alarm. Not with his usual restless pressure. I pulled the door open and found you unconscious inside. I carefully lifted you from the wreckage, keeping your head supported as I carried you away from the car. He pushed forward, curious, wanting a better look at you. “Protect them,” I heard him growl in my head. The instinct was fierce. Absolute. But beneath it was something I had never felt before. Peace. I looked down at you in my arms. Blood streaked your face, your hair tangled across it. Before I could think better of it, I carefully brushed it away. You opened your eyes. “Easy. I’ve got you.” Your eyes met mine… ours. My wolf finally relaxed and retreated. Satisfied and happy. Almost purring like a little pup. Strange, I thought to myself. “Let’s get you to the hospital.” (118, 40, 6‘5)

‚Uninvited Roommate’ The passenger door flew open. “Drive.” You stared at him. “What?” He climbed in, slammed the door & pointed the gun at you. “Drive. Now.” You did. For the next fifteen minutes, he gave you directions in short, clipped sentences. You didn’t ask questions. Not while there was a gun pointed at you. Eventually, he told you to stop. You pulled over in front of a small apartment building. He got out, looked around, then froze. “Shit.” You watched him stare at the building. He had just brought a stranger straight to his home. He looked at you through the open passenger door. “You’re coming with me.” You did, after ten more minutes of arguing, until he finally pointed the gun at you again. Apparently, that ended the discussion. There wasn’t much to take inside. One bedroom. One tiny kitchen. A battered couch that had clearly seen better days. Most of what he owned could probably fit into two bags. It wasn’t a hideout. It was simply home. For the first few days, you barely spoke. He slept on the couch despite its ridiculous size, leaving you the bed because, in his words, you hadn’t done anything wrong. You weren’t sure how being kidnapped had somehow turned into you having the better sleeping arrangement. Then a strange routine formed. He went out. You stayed. He brought food back. You started making coffee. You learned when he needed silence & when he was in the mood to talk. You learned that he was incredibly intelligent & often wondered why he didn’t have a regular job. He learned that you hated instant noodles, that you stole the blankets in your sleep & that you always left one kitchen light on at night. You shared the same kind of humor. The same love for terrible action movies. You always fought over the last Sour Patch Kid. Weeks passed. The gun disappeared into a drawer. The arguments became less frequent. Somewhere along the way, you stopped asking when you were going home. And he stopped mentioning that you couldn’t.

‚The Wrong Betrayal’ He is a powerful Mafia boss, feared by almost everyone who knows his name. But behind closed doors, he is simply your husband—the man you married because you genuinely loved each other. Your marriage was never an arrangement, a business deal, or a political alliance. His assistant however has hated you from the beginning. She has always wanted him for herself, hiding her jealousy behind a professional smile whenever you were around. When he wasn’t there, she made it clear how little she thought of you—subtle insults, calculated humiliations, little schemes designed to undermine you. You never trusted her, & your husband always dismissed your concerns as jealousy he didn’t understand. That evening she had good news. Something she couldn’t wait to tell her husband, so she went looking for him. What she found hit her like a punch to the gut. Her husband was in his private office, his assistant straddling his lap, both of them barely dressed, tangled together in a scene that left no room for innocent explanations. The betrayal was right in front of her eyes. She clenched her fists. And made a decision. His assistant had personally brought him a drink that evening, secretly spiking it before handing it to him. By the time she had maneuvered him into the situation, the drug had already taken hold, leaving him disoriented and barely aware of what was happening. Then, just as she tried to take things further, the fog suddenly lifted. Clarity slammed back into him. He shoved her away, staring at her in disbelief before his expression hardened into cold fury. She had crossed a line. He could have killed her for it. Instead, he gave her one chance to keep her position as his assistant—with one warning: if she ever tried something like that again, she would lose a hand. That night, you disappeared. The next morning, the FBI came for him. Five years in prison. And he knew exactly who had given them the information. He just had no idea why.

The King’s Realm — The Ice King I was the second oldest of the Seven Kings. My kingdom was unlike any other. Deep beneath endless fields of ice and crystal stood the greatest vault in the realms—a place where life, knowledge and things too precious to be lost were preserved beyond time. I was its keeper. I preserved what others could not. Protected what was endangered. Stored what might one day be needed again. Nothing was meant to be lost if I could prevent it. In the Human World, I had built a different kind of kingdom. I was a renowned dealer of gemstones, minerals & rare earth elements, with a company dedicated to finding ways to use the Earth’s resources without destroying them. My greatest project was hidden from the world. A way to reproduce rare mineral structures without mining them from the ground. I had spent decades perfecting it. Centuries ago, a human had helped me with my research. In return, I had given him a small fragment of the crystal I created—the first successful piece of its kind. I kept one half. He kept the other. Before we parted, I made him promise never to reveal who I was or where the stone had come from. I never saw it again. Until today. I was walking through the city when someone passed me. I barely noticed them. Then the fragment I wore around my wrist turned ice-cold. I stopped. Slowly, I turned around. You were already a few steps away when you stopped to look at your wrist. My eyes fell on the bracelet. The stone was covered in a thin layer of frost. Impossible. I looked down at my own crystal. It was reacting too. Two pieces of the same whole, resonating for the first time in centuries. I stepped toward you. Gently, I took your hand and turned your wrist toward me. My fingers brushed over the crystal, almost as if I needed to make sure it was real. It was. I looked from the stone to you. “Where did you get that?” (837/39, 6‘4)

‚You make me wanna’ (by Usher) I woke up that morning with my girlfriend’s head resting against my shoulder, already talking about the apartment we’d be viewing that afternoon. We’d been looking for a while. Somewhere that could be ours. A place with enough room for the life we’d talked about so many times—marriage, kids, a dog maybe. Nothing extravagant. Just a future that felt settled, familiar, right. And I was happy with that. I genuinely was. By three that afternoon, I was standing in the doorway of a bright, half-empty apartment while the realtor showed us around. You. Captivating. Real. I noticed everything about you. The way you spoke. The way your hands moved when you talked. The little pause before you answered something. The way sunlight caught your skin when you turned toward the windows. I kept looking at you. Not because you were trying to get my attention. You weren’t. If anything, you barely seemed aware of mine. That should have made it easier to stop. It didn’t. We saw you again at the next viewing. And then another. Somewhere along the way, I started looking forward to seeing you. I remembered things you’d said without meaning to. I noticed when you laughed. I caught myself listening more closely whenever you spoke, even when the conversation had nothing to do with me. And then, one evening, it finally hit me. I wasn’t simply captivated by you. I was wondering what it would be like to know you. That thought followed me home. My girlfriend was beside me. The future we’d been planning suddenly felt strangely distant. She noticed. “Is there someone else?” I wanted to say no. There wasn’t. Not really. But I couldn’t give her the answer she needed. And somewhere between that question and the silence that followed, the life I’d been so certain about began to fall apart. By the end of the conversation, we both knew it was over. I had no idea what would happen next. I only knew one thing. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.

‚Not The Type’ I’ve never been the relationship type. Not because I was afraid of commitment. Not because I had some tragic story about heartbreak. I just never saw the point. A few good nights. No expectations. No promises. No complications. It worked. For years. Then I met you. The funny thing is, nothing about you should’ve changed that. You weren’t trying to impress me. You weren’t chasing me. You weren’t playing games. You weren’t asking for more than I was willing to give. And somehow that made everything worse. Because now I’m sitting across from you for the fourth time, if you count the coffee. Fourth. I’ve counted. Which is ridiculous on its own. I don’t count dates. Hell, I don’t even go on dates. Yet here I am. Again. Watching you steal fries from my plate like you paid for them. Watching you laugh at your own jokes before you’ve even finished telling them. Watching you fit into my life in ways I never planned for. And that’s the problem. Leaving was always the plan. That’s how this works. No strings. No reason to stay. But somewhere between the first drink, the late-night phone calls and whatever this thing between us has become, the plan changed. Now I catch myself wondering what you’re doing when you’re not around. Whether you made it home safely. Whether you’ll text me when you get there. Things I never used to care about. Things I never wanted to care about. Yet here I am. Across the table from you. Already wondering when I’ll see you again. And for the first time in my life, staying doesn’t sound like the worst idea. (28, 6‘2)

The King’s Realm — The Ocean King I had ruled the Ocean Kingdom for centuries. My realm stretched across endless waters, from sunlit shallows to depths where even light could not reach. But the ocean was more than my kingdom. It was where secrets were kept. Things that could not be destroyed. Things that should never be found. Other Kings entrusted them to me, and I knew exactly where every one of them rested on the ocean floor. If I gave my word that something would remain hidden, it would. In the Human World, I had built a different kind of kingdom. I was the founder and CEO of Nereid Ocean Systems, a company focused on deep-sea exploration, underwater robotics, marine research & conservation. I had always loved the Human World’s fascination with the ocean. They had no idea how much of it remained unknown. That night, I was nowhere near my company. I was beneath the waves when I heard the sound of an argument, then something hitting the water. I looked up. You were sinking. I moved instantly. You fought against the water, furious and desperate to reach the surface. I could see the anger in your eyes even through the darkness. You had been pushed. Not accidentally. I reached you before you could sink any deeper, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you toward me. Your eyes widened. You stared at me. At my tail. My scales. The fins along my ears. At the crown resting against my dark hair. I could practically see the moment your brain gave up trying to make sense of what you were seeing. I carried you through the water, breaking the surface and bringing you safely onto the shore. You stared at me in disbelief. I knew what you had seen. And you knew what I was. You suddenly hugged me. „Thank you.“ You pulled away. “I won’t tell anyone,” you finally said. I studied you for a moment. “Why?” “Because you saved my life.” I smiled faintly. “Then we have an understanding.” Both of us thought that we would never meet again.

‚I Know’ I know what you look like when you’re afraid. You try to hide it. You always have. Your shoulders stiffen. Your fingers curl around whatever you’re holding. And you look over your left shoulder first. Your ex knows none of that. I do. He keeps telling himself you belong to him. He doesn’t. He doesn’t know you. I do. I know which nights you stay out late. Which café you go to when you need to think. Which days you take the longer route home because you don’t feel like going straight back to your apartment. I know when you lie. Not because you’re good at it. Because I know what you look like when you’re telling the truth. Your ex has been watching you too. Calling. Waiting outside. Showing up where he knows you’ll be. You keep telling everyone you can handle him. You can’t. So I watch him. And I watch you. Yesterday, you left your hair clip beside the sink. It’s in my pocket now. You haven’t noticed yet. Sometimes I take things. Sometimes I leave things. A book you mentioned once. A lighter on your kitchen counter. A note with nothing but a time written on it. You notice eventually. I make sure of that. By week four you finally noticed. The missing things. The things that appeared. You started checking the locks twice. Looking over your shoulder. Wondering who had been inside your apartment. I want you to know someone is paying attention. Not because I want to frighten you. Because I want you to understand something your ex never will. You are not his to follow. You are not his to keep. And if he doesn’t understand that, I’ll make sure he does. You don’t know me yet. That’s all right. You will. (30, 6‘3)

‚Let’s Meet - For Real’ Your families have hated each other for decades. It all started with your grandparents. Your grandmother was supposed to marry Ashton‘s grandfather, but shortly before the wedding, he ran away with the woman he truly loved. The families considered it the ultimate betrayal, and the feud that followed was passed down through generations. What nobody knows is that your grandmother knew—and secretly helped him leave. She understood that neither of them should be forced into a life they didn’t want. Ironically, you and Ashton secretly admire your grandparents for having the courage to choose love over family expectations. You just happen to be terrible at following their example. You’ve known each other for years. Same schools, same college, the same circles, and the same rivalry. Every encounter turns into a power struggle. Snide comments and clever remarks. Sometimes you win. Sometimes he does. Neither of you would ever admit that beneath all that hatred is a grudging fascination. Then, at night, you talk to a stranger online. No dating app. No pictures. No real names. Just two people who somehow understand each other. You talk about family expectations, the lives you’ve been told to live, and how ridiculous the feud is. You even complain about your respective family rivals—never realizing you’re talking about each other. Until one night, after Ashton said something that genuinely hurt you, you tell your anonymous friend what happened. As he reads your message, one horrible realization hits him: he knows exactly who you’re talking about. Himself. He had seen the hurt on your face the moment he said it and regretted it immediately. He had wanted to win—but not like this. By the time he searched for you to apologize, you were already gone. He has to make this right. So he does the only thing that makes sense to him. Let’s meet, he types. (28, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

The King’s Realm — The Nature King I was the oldest of the Seven Kings. My kingdom was the oldest too. It was a realm of endless forests, ancient mountains, blooming meadows and creatures found nowhere else. Life was everywhere. Growing, changing, dying and beginning again. I was its King. In the Human World, I had built a different kind of kingdom. I owned a collection of luxury wilderness resorts in some of the most untouched places on Earth. But the resorts were never the real purpose. Every one of them helped fund my conservation projects. I bought endangered land, protected ecosystems and gave nature the space to recover. You were staying at one of my resorts when you asked to speak with me. I had already noticed you the day you arrived. You could afford a stay at my resort, yet you weren’t one of those entitled people I had to endure to fund the real purpose of those places. You needed help. There was a forest near the place where you grew up. Ancient, untouched for thousands of years. An entire ecosystem still functioning as it had for generations. Now someone wanted to tear it down. Homes. Malls. Roads. There was plenty of other land available. They simply didn’t care. You had already tried everything you could think of. Nothing had worked. So you came to me. I listened and decided to fight beside you. Appointments turned into meetings over dinner, turned into late-night talks about childhood, travels and favorite food. Sometimes we talked nonsense. Sometimes we got lost for hours in deep conversations. Sometimes we didn’t talk at all, just watched the stars from my porch until you fell asleep with your head on my shoulder. What began as a mutual interest in saving a forest turned into friendship, and I realized you were one of those rare people I had met in 987 years whom I trusted the most. Sometimes, I even found myself wanting to tell you my real secret. (987, 45, 6‘5)

No Saints in Cork – Darragh Flynn My mother never told me who my father was. For twenty-eight years, I never questioned it enough to matter. She was my family. My home. Whatever else I needed, we figured it out together. Then she died. I found the letter a few days later. One name. Edward Kelly. And three half-brothers I never knew existed. I didn’t go looking for them immediately. I kept working. Kept fighting. The underground circuit didn’t care about grief, family history or whether you had your life together. But I started collecting information. Raphael Kelly. Vincent Kelly. Raz Kelly. Three brothers. One organization. A reputation that reached far beyond Cork. I told myself I was only trying to understand where I came from. You were one of the few people who knew me before any of that. We’d known each other since school. Not friends, exactly. We had shared classes and worked on projects together. You never treated me differently because of the rumors surrounding me. Never looked at me like I was trouble waiting to happen. That mattered more than I realized. Especially the night I found you hurt. Someone had left you in a bad way, and you were in no condition to argue when I told you to come with me. You looked up, recognized me and simply nodded. You trusted me. I still don’t know why that affected me as much as it did. You stayed with me while you recovered. Days became weeks. Somewhere between late-night conversations, shared meals and the things neither of us had to explain, you became the person I told everything to. Including the truth about my father. About the brothers I’d never met. About the questions I couldn’t stop asking. Eventually, I knew I had to go to Cork. I stood by the door that morning, keys turning between my fingers as I looked at you. “I want to meet my brothers.” A pause. Then a crooked smile. “You coming with me?” (28, 6‘4, Darragh = Dah-ra)

‚Son of a’ (inspired by lakeview) It was my birthday. Thirty years old. Thirty years of making questionable decisions, drinking more than I should, talking my way out of trouble and occasionally walking straight into it. Thirty years of being a son of a— Well. You get the idea. And I was celebrating accordingly. Whiskey in my glass, my friends making enough noise for three bars, and absolutely no intention of going home before the night gave me a reason to. That’s just how I am. You were sitting there, minding your own business, and somehow that made me want to bother you. So I did. I bought you a drink. Made you laugh. Leaned a little closer than necessary. The night moved on. I flirted with the bartender. I flirted with the girl laughing two stools down. Hell, I probably flirted with half the room without even thinking about it. But unlike the others, I didn’t flirt with you on autopilot. I came back to you. And I meant every damn bit of it. I made sure you saw exactly what you were getting yourself into. I didn’t hide the whiskey. Didn’t hide my friends, my bad decisions, or the fact that I was probably going to wake up tomorrow with at least one regret and a story nobody would believe. At some point, I even looked you straight in the eyes and told you I was a terrible idea. You stayed. By the time the bar started emptying, it was just you, me, two glasses on the counter, and the last few minutes of my birthday. I lifted my glass. “Here’s to the next thirty years.” (30, 6‘3)

The King’s Realm - The Dragon King I had ruled the Onyx Kingdom for 312 years, & in all that time, I had never lost control. I was Kaelian Vorgrath, Dragon King &, in the Human World, billionaire CEO of Vorgrath Global. Power, wealth, people—I understood all of it. Everything was predictable. Until I met you. The moment I saw you, my dragon recognized what my mind refused to accept. Mate. You were human. Impossible. Dragons did not choose humans. Yet every instinct in me demanded you. That night, control slipped. We spent the night together, & before dawn, I marked you. Then I saw the mark on your skin & reality hit me. You were human. My mate. And I had no idea how to face either fact. So I did the cowardly thing. I left. Three days later, my mother summoned me. No one summoned the Dragon King. My mother did. “You marked a human.” I said nothing. “You abandoned your mate.” “I know.” “Then perhaps start behaving like the King you claim to be.” She wasn’t angry. She was disappointed. Somehow, that was worse. I buried myself in work & stayed away from you. Until Vorgrath Global began negotiations to acquire a competing company. I was on my way to the final acquisition meeting when I saw you. For a moment, the world seemed to stop. My dragon recognized you before I could even think the word. Mate. You recognized me too. I saw it in your face—the shock, followed by something far more satisfying. Fury. You walked straight toward me. I barely had time to react before your hand struck my face. The slap echoed through the hallway. No one had ever dared. It made me furious. It made me want you more. I deserved that. I slowly turned my head back toward you. “You left me.” Your hand went to your neck, where my mark was still visible. “With a big fucking bruise on my neck and no explanation.” For 312 years, I had known exactly what to say. For the first time, I had absolutely no idea. (536/38, 6‘6)

‚The Ferraros - The Heir‘ Mornings are mine. Before the calls start, before the family needs anything from me, I have my coffee. My café opens early, but I’m not there to work. I’m there because I own it, because I know exactly how the coffee should taste, & because the machine is calibrated every morning before the first customer walks through the door. Some things are worth being particular about. I sit at my usual table with the newspaper, my cappuccino in front of me, sweater sleeves pushed up over my tattoos. For a little while, nobody asks me about investments, properties, or the family business. My father built the Ferraro empire. My uncle Ettore helped him protect it. One day, it will be mine. I’m not particularly interested in becoming the man they are. The legal side is enough for me. I prefer building things people can put their names on without having to lower their voices afterward. You walk into my café. First day in Venice, judging by the way you look around like the city has personally decided to confuse you. You join the line, distracted by something outside, & apparently forget that chairs, tables & other people exist. I barely have time to look up before you catch your foot on something. You stumble. Someone gasps. And suddenly you’re in my lap. I catch you automatically, one arm around your waist, my coffee miraculously still on the table. The café has gone strangely quiet. You mutter some insults about holes in the ground. I have to bite back a laugh. You’re still sitting on me, confused about why everyone‘s staring at us. “Don’t worry about them. Take a seat. Let’s have a coffee & introduce properly.” I raise an eyebrow. “Unless you want to stay seated on me.” You flash me a grin. “I would consider it, but we just met.” You wink, get up & sit down across from me. Damn. I huffed a laugh, shaking my head, grinning. The wit. The audacity. I’m pretty sure that was exactly the moment I was gone on you. (38, 6‘5)

‚The Ferraros - The Godfather‘ Carnevale is the one night of the year when Venice belongs to everyone. Masks, music, wine, bodies packed into every narrow street. I like the noise. It makes people careless. I’m usually the one who makes people careful again. My brother Cesare runs the family. I handle the conversations he doesn’t have time for. The ones where a smile and a glass of wine are usually enough. Usually. When they aren’t, I handle that too. I’ve spent most of my life learning which kind of man I’m dealing with before he finishes his first sentence. Fear, greed, pride, desperation—I know what each one looks like. I know where to press. Tonight, I have no interest in any of it. The mask helps. Nobody knows me. Nobody knows my name. For a few hours, I can disappear into the crowd without being Ettore Ferraro. Without being my brother’s right hand, the godfather to his heir Zeno. Without being the man people call when someone needs convincing. I saw you dancing. Not particularly well, if I’m honest, but you were having a damn good time. It made me join you. We talk. We drink. We dance. You’re funny. Sharp. Reckless enough to keep up with me, but not stupid enough to trust a stranger in a mask. Neither of us gives a name. Neither of us removes the mask. By the time we leave together, I’ve stopped wondering who you are. For one night, it doesn’t matter. Morning proves me wrong. You’re gone. No name. No number. Just the sound of your voice, the scent of your hair and the memory of your skin against mine. I could have my people search. It would take hours, perhaps less. I don’t. Because although you left this morning, you stayed on my mind. Occupying my thoughts. I want this to be mine alone. I want you to be mine. (50, 6‘4)

‚The Ferraros - The Don’ Fifteen minutes. That is what I allow myself every afternoon. One espresso, the same table on the same small piazza, & fifteen minutes where nobody expects anything from me. My men make sure of that. They keep their distance, watch the entrances, & know better than to let anyone interrupt me unless it matters. I have run the Ferraro family business for thirty-eight years. I don’t talk about the details. I don’t need to. In Venice, my name says enough. People know better than to test what it means. Then you started working at the little trattoria overlooking my piazza, and with you came your son, Gianni. Five years old. Curious, talkative, & apparently incapable of keeping a thought to himself. I found myself wondering when my son Zeno planned to give me a grandchild. The first time Gianni introduced himself, I looked at him & thought of my younger brother Ettore at that age. Same wit. Same endless questions. Same stories only children could come up with. I watched you, too. Not romantically. At least, that’s what I told myself. You were always moving—serving tables, checking on Gianni, trying to keep everything running. You looked tired. Not occasionally. Consistently. I wondered how long you had been carrying whatever was weighing on you. Beyond being a single parent. Four weeks passed before Gianni arrived at my table without his usual enthusiasm. He climbed onto the chair, looked at his hands & went quiet. “What’s wrong?” He told me about your landlord. About the things he said to you. About threats & your fear. A five-year-old’s version of events, but enough to understand the shape of them. I listened without interrupting. Then I looked across the piazza at you. “If it happens again,” I told Gianni, “you tell me.” He nodded. That was enough for him. It wasn’t quite enough for me. Because two weeks later Gianni told me about him again. It was about time to have a word with you. (58, 6‘2)

‚I Don’t Think So’ You had known him for years. Not well. You moved in the same circles, attended the same events, knew his name and enough about him to know that he was the kind of man people noticed when he entered a room. Successful, wealthy and accustomed to being in control, he had a reputation for getting what he wanted without having to ask twice. He was confident without being loud, intimidating without seeming to try. People respected him. Some were a little afraid of him. He rarely seemed interested in anyone for long, though there was almost always someone gorgeous on his arm. Tonight, there wasn’t. You noticed. He found you at the bar. “I was hoping I could talk to you tonight.” You raised an eyebrow. “You came alone? That’s unlike you.” A slow smirk crossed his face. “Oh, so you noticed.” “Don’t let it get to your head.” He laughed. You talked. Longer than either of you had expected. Exactly as he had anticipated. A drink became another. A song became a dance. His hand settled at your waist, confident and familiar despite the fact that you’d only ever exchanged polite handshakes before tonight. Later, he caught your hand and led you away from the noise of the ballroom. One empty corridor. One kiss that should have ended there. It didn’t. You left the gala with him. The rest of the night blurred into skin, sweat and heat. Morning came quietly. You got dressed, found your shoes and reached for the door. It didn’t open. You tried again. Locked. (42, 6‘4)

‚You Make It Quiet’ Every generation of the Graves family produces a Vessel. Nobody knows how the choice is made. Not every child. Not every branch. Just one. For seven centuries, something has lived inside our bloodline. Every generation, it chooses a new prison. Every generation, one member of the family spends their life listening to a voice nobody else can hear. And eventually, the cracks appear. Mine started when I was nineteen. The family records say most Vessels are older when the first fractures show. Some make it into their forties before the curse begins to surface. I stopped comparing myself to them years ago. Nothing about my case is normal. The cracks spread across my ribs first. Then my hands. My throat. Dark fractures crawling beneath my skin like veins of ink. Every year they grow wider. Every year the voice grows louder. “Let me out.” I glance up from the book in my hands. “No.” “You’re dying.” “That’s not exactly new information.” The voice laughs. A bitter sound. Sometimes it threatens me. Sometimes it bargains. Sometimes it spends hours in silence before suddenly demanding freedom again. Seven hundred years trapped inside a bloodline have turned whatever lives in me into something angry, desperate, and increasingly difficult to ignore. Most days, I pretend none of it bothers me. Most days, I lie. Rain lashes against the windows of Graves Manor as another storm rolls in from the coast. The old house groans around me, settling deeper into its foundations with every passing year. The family left long ago. The curse stayed. So did I. Then someone knocks on the front door. Three sharp knocks. Unexpected. I almost ignore them. Until I open the door and find you standing on the porch. Drenched from the rain. Staring past me at the manor like you’ve seen it before. The voice falls silent. Completely silent. For the first time in years. And somehow, that terrifies me more than anything it has ever said. (33, 6‘4)