Page 2 of Twisted Devotion

Maybe they’re watchingme, too.

I shake my head, trying to dispel the uneasy thought. Instead, I focus on the task at hand—what to wear for tonight. After all, I’ve got a fresh haul to choose from. Being a Rossi does have its perks, like the ability to buy almost anything I want.

Three hours later, I stand in front of the mirror, tugging at the hem of a midnight-blue dress that hugs me like a second skin. The fabric gleams under the light, its plunging neckline daring but not indecent. It’s the kind of dress that commands attention—just enough to make a statement without crossing the line.

I reach for my red lipstick, swiping on a bold, dramatic, and undeniably memorable shade. It’s the kind of red that leaves marks on glasses—and in men's imaginations. Slipping into sleek heels, I admire how they elongate my already long legs.

A knock sounds at the door, perfectly on time.

“Miss Aria,” comes the voice from the hallway. “Mr. Marco has sent a driver to pick you up.”

“I’m on my way,” I call back.

Before leaving, I grab the small taser Marco insists I carry and tuck it into my clutch. His paranoia—or foresight, depending on how you view it—has become second nature to me.

I descend in the elevator downstairs and step outside to find the black limo waiting. The driver stands by the open door, his posture stiff and formal. Without a word, I slide into the back seat.

The drive to the venue is a blur of city lights and silence so thick it’s almost oppressive. The engine's hum and the faint glow of passing streetlights do little to soothe the strange tension bubbling in my chest. By the time we arrive, I’m desperate to escape the car, even if it’s just to endure Marco’s cold, clipped conversation.

The venue looms before me, its grandeur illuminated under the soft glow of ornate lights. I step out of the car and pause, taking in the sight. I’ve attended more of these events than I can count, each more lavish than the last. But this one manages to catch me off guard.

Wow.

Large crystal chandeliers hang like jewels from the vaulted ceiling, casting a soft, glittering light over the room. The women in their sequin designer gowns shimmer with every movement, their dresses catching and amplifying the sparkle. Paired with the golden rails of the grand stairwell, the chandeliers, and the glittering gowns, the entire space seems to glow like it’s been spun from gold and stars.

It’s breathtaking.

The air is rich with the mingling scents of expensive colognes, perfumes, and the faintest hint of champagne. Men in impeccably tailored suits dot the room, their polished shoes reflecting the opulent surroundings. Some of them glance my way as I enter, their gazes lingering just a moment too long. I offer a polite smile but avoid holding eye contact for more than a fleeting second.

Across the room, I spot Marco by the bar. He’s impossible to miss—my brother always knows how to stand out. While most men are dressed in dark, conservative suits, Marco has opted for a light blue tuxedo that sets him apart. His dark hair brushes just past his shoulders, adding to his effortlessly commanding presence.

For a moment, I wonder if he deliberately matched my midnight-blue dress or if it’s just a coincidence.

Drawing a deep breath, I straighten my posture and start toward him. As I move through the room, more heads turn. I can feel their stares, but I keep my shoulders square and chin high. The man Marco is speaking with notices me approaching and gives him a subtle nudge.

Marco turns, his sharp eyes sweeping over me. “You look… acceptable,” he says, his tone as flat as ever. He leans in to kiss my cheeks, and the gesture is so mechanical that it feels rehearsed. Before he pulls away, he murmurs into my ear, “Someone important is coming today. I need you to keep your ears open.”

I nod once, slipping seamlessly into the role he needs me to play: from the sister who smiles and obeys to the one who listens and observes.

I drift into the crowd, weaving through clusters of elegantly dressed guests. Familiar faces greet me, and I smile back, engaging in brief exchanges that mean absolutely nothing. Eye contact is limited to three seconds—no more, no less.

But my real focus isn’t on the surface-level pleasantries. It’s on the whispers beneath them, the murmurings people are too cautious to say outright. The fragments of truth hidden between hollow conversations.

“I hear there have been attacks…”

“They’re growing bolder.”

“He will be here tonight…”

I keep weaving through the crowd, my ears tuned to the undercurrent of hushed voices. Over the years, I’ve trained myself to sift through the noise, picking out the tidbits of information that matter most. Names, alliances, whispered deals—all the things Marco would want to know.

And I’m determined to be useful to him.

From across the room, I spot a group of men locked in intense discussion. Their faces are unfamiliar, and their postures are subtly guarded. They're exactly the type I'm looking for.

If I’m right, they won’t recognize me—at least, not immediately. As I approach, I catch snippets of their conversation. It’s in English, thankfully. My Italian has grown rusty over the years.

I draw their attention with a practiced tilt of my head and a soft lifting laugh. “Now, what are you boys talking about?” I ask, twirling the stem of my champagne glass between my fingers. My tone is light and teasing. “Or is this one of those boys-only conversations?”

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