The Devil’s Secret

The Devil’s Eyes

“Clean it up,” he said again, but his voice was calm.

I dropped to my knees, my hands shaking so badly I could barely grip the cloth. The wine soaked through immediately, staining my fingers red. I scrubbed frantically.

The men resumed their conversation like I didn’t exist, but I felt him watching.

When I finally finished, Signora Russo grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my skin, and dragged me from the dining room without a word.

The moment we reached the kitchen, she slapped me. The kind of slap that makes your ears ring and go deaf for a moment. My cheek burned, and my eyes watered from the impact.

“You embarrass this house again,” she hissed, her face inches from mine,

“and you’ll be out on the street. Or worse.”

She shoved me toward the sink.

“Clean yourself up. You look pathetic.” She threw a sponge at me and left.

I stood there trembling, holding my burning cheek.

The other servants avoided me after that. I spent the rest of the evening washing dishes in silence, my hands raw from the hot water. No one spoke to me or even looked at me—except Maria.

She appeared beside me near midnight when most of the staff had gone to bed. She didn’t say anything at first, just started drying the dishes I washed.

“You’re lucky,” she finally whispered, rinsing the plate I handed her.

I glanced at her. “Lucky?”

“That Il Don didn’t have you thrown out. Or killed.” She set the plate down carefully.

“He doesn’t tolerate mistakes.”

“It was an accident…” I whispered.

“It doesn’t matter.” Maria’s voice was barely audible.

“Listen to me, Elena. Il Don never uses servants’ names. Never. He doesn’t even look at us. But he used yours. And he looked right at you.”

My stomach twisted.

“What does that mean?” I whispered.

Maria’s eyes darkened with something like pity.

“It means you’re on his radar now. And that’s the most dangerous place to be in this house.”

She dried the last dish and stepped away.

“Just… be invisible. That’s how you survive here.”

Then she left me alone in the kitchen.

I didn’t sleep that night. I lay awake, listening to every sound in the house.

Around two in the morning, footsteps stopped outside my door. I held my breath.

The handle turned slowly. The lock clicked. I sat up, my heart pounding so hard it hurt. I’d hidden a small kitchen knife under my pillow. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

The door didn’t open. Silence.

Then, so quietly I almost didn’t hear it, a voice spoke from the other side.

“Sleep well, Isla.”

My blood turned to ice as the footsteps retreated down the hall.

I didn’t move. I just sat there in the darkness, gripping the knife, my entire body shaking.

Morning came too soon. I dragged myself out of bed, exhausted and terrified.

I dressed in my servant’s uniform: a simple black dress, a white apron, and hair pulled tight to the back.

Breakfast in the servants’ quarters was tense.

I sat at the end of the long table, eating bread and weak coffee while servants whispered, casting glances my way. I caught fragments:

“…heard Il Don use her name…”

“…never seen him do that before…”

“…she probably won’t last a week…”

I kept my head down, forcing myself to eat even though my stomach was in knots.

Maria sat across from me.

“You’re assigned to the main hall today,” she said softly.

“Dusting and polishing. Just keep your head down and do your work.”

I nodded and headed to the hall.

I worked slowly, carefully. Dusting every surface. Polishing every piece of silver. But while I worked, my eyes scanned everything.

I counted the guards—eight in the main hall alone.

I noted which doors were locked.

Which hallways had cameras.

The guard rotation—every two hours.

I was building a map of the mansion in my mind.

Eventually, I would need it.

I pulled out my phone from my apron and quickly snapped photos of the layout and security positions.

As I walked across the hall, I spotted a painting that looked like it might hide a safe. I reached out to check it, listening carefully for footsteps.

After a minute, footsteps approached. I shoved the phone back in my pocket and grabbed a cloth, scrubbing an already spotless table.

The footsteps stopped.

“You missed a spot.”

My heart dropped.

I forced myself to look up.

Luciano Romano stood ten feet away, hands in his pockets.

“Where?” I whispered.

He nodded toward the corner of the table.

“There.”

The table was spotless.

He was smiling—cold, knowing.

“You’re very thorough, Elena,” he said.

“I appreciate attention to detail.”

“Thank you, sir,” I whispered.

He stepped closer.

“Tell me,” he said quietly,

“are you settling in well?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No complaints? No problems?”

“No, sir.”

“Good.” His eyes moved from mine to my mouth, then to the fading mark on my cheek. His expression darkened.

“Who hit you?”

My throat went dry.

“I… it was my fault, sir. I made a mistake—”

“I didn’t ask whose fault it was. I asked who hit you.”

Shit.

“Signora Russo, sir.”

He nodded slowly, filing it away in his mind. Then he reached out, and I flinched.

He paused, lowered his hand.

“Get back to work.”

“Yes, sir.”

He walked away, and I stood shaking, clutching the cloth until my knuckles turned white.

What the hell was that?

That afternoon, I was sent to the garden. It was my first time outside since arriving, and despite everything, the beauty stunned me.

The garden was huge—perfectly manicured hedges, roses in full bloom, marble fountains. Paradise built by the Devil.

I was clipping roses for the dinner table when I felt eyes on me. I looked up.

Luciano stood at a second-floor window, partly hidden behind a curtain—but watching me.

Our eyes met.

He didn’t look away.

Neither did I.

Seconds passed. Maybe minutes.

Then he disappeared into the dark room.

What is he doing?

Why is he watching me?

God, he’s making this hard.

That evening, during dinner in the servants’ quarters, Maria sat beside me.

“So, Elena,” she said casually, eating her soup,

“tell me more about yourself. Where are you from?”

“Salerno,” I lied smoothly.

“And your family?”

“They’re dead. I was orphaned young.”

“I’m sorry,” Maria said softly.

“It must have been hard growing up alone.”

“It was.”

“How did you end up in Naples?”

The questions seemed casual, but I felt the weight behind them.

“Just… drifted here. I needed work.”

“You seem educated,” Maria said thoughtfully.

“Most girls here are desperate. You seem like someone running from something.”

My stomach tightened. I forced a smile.

“Just bad luck, I guess.”

She studied me, then smiled.

“Well, you’re here now. Might as well make the best of it.”

That night, alone in my room, I pulled out the burner phone.

I sent the photos: guard rotations, layout, security.

Vittorio’s response made my stomach turn.

“This is useless. I need documents, financial records, names of his associates. You have access to the house. USE IT.”

Who the hell did he think he was?

I typed back with shaking hands.

“I’m trying. It’s heavily guarded.”

He didn’t reply for a long time.

Then he did.

“Your cousin Camila is a beautiful girl. Twenty three years old. Wyndham University. Lives alone on Via Mazzini. It would be a shame if something happened to her.”

He attached a photo—Camila leaving class, smiling, unaware she was being watched.

My vision blurred with tears.

“Do your job, Isla. Or she pays the price.”

I deleted the messages, my entire body shaking.

I had no choice.

I had to go deeper.

Take bigger risks.

Even if it killed me.

What had I gotten myself into?