Page 3 of Twisted Devotion

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.

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