The Mafia King’s Cursed Luna.

Some doors are locked to keep enemies out. Others are locked to keep the truth from getting out. The first thing I learned about Blackthorn Palace was that the dead were not allowed to rest. Their faces watched me from the walls. Old kings in gold frames. Queens with cold eyes. Men who had built their power on blood and women who had smiled while their enemies fell. Every portrait seemed to ask the same question as I walked beneath them. What gives you the right to be here? I had an answer. My mother was dead, and someone in this palace knew why. For six years, I had lived with the lie that Mirelle Voss had died from a fever. Six years of hearing people lower their voices when they said her name. Six years of being told to stop asking questions about a night I could barely recall. Then, six weeks ago, I found the letter. It had been hidden behind a loose brick in the wall of my mother’s old room, wrapped in a piece of cloth that smelled of dust and dried roses. The paper was yellow. The writing was hers. Seraphine, if you are reading this, then I have failed to keep the truth from you. Find the black crown. The answer lies beneath it. And whatever you do, do not trust the man who wears it. There had been no name at the bottom. Only a mark: a wolf’s open jaws around a crescent moon. I had seen that mark before. It stood above the iron gates of Blackthorn Palace. And now, wearing a stolen black dress and a smile I did not feel, I was about to walk into the home of the most feared man in the kingdom. Draven Blackthorn. Mafia King. Alpha. The man whose family name had followed my mother to her grave. I did not know whether he had killed her. But I intended to find out. The palace doors opened before I reached them. Warm light spilled across the steps. Music drifted through the grand hall, mixed with the soft clink of glasses and the low hum of rich people who had never needed to count the cost of a meal. I lifted my chin and walked in. No one stopped me. That should have worried me more than it did. A servant took my coat. Another offered me a glass of red wine. I refused it and moved into the crowd, keeping my hands still and my eyes alert. The room was full of silk, diamonds, and quiet threats. Men shook hands while their guards watched each other. Women smiled at people they would gladly ruin. At the far end of the hall, a group of men stood around a table covered with old maps. This was not just a party. It was a meeting of people who held the kingdom by the throat. And somewhere in this room was the man I had come to face. “New to the palace?” The voice came from my left. I turned. A woman in a silver gown stood beside me. Her pale hair fell in neat waves over her shoulders, and a diamond necklace rested at her throat. Her smile was lovely enough to be trusted. Her eyes were not. “Is it that clear?” I asked. “Only to those who know what to look for.” She held out a hand. “Isolde Ravencourt.” I knew the name. Everyone did. Isolde was the daughter of one of the kingdom’s oldest noble houses. Rumor said she had spent years trying to become Draven’s Luna. Another rumor said she would rather rule beside him than marry him. I took her hand. “Seraphine Voss.” The smile left her face. It lasted less than a second, but I saw it. “Voss?” she asked. “Yes.” She looked at me as though I had walked out of a grave. “Interesting,” she said at last. “I thought that name had been buried.” “So did I.” Her fingers tightened around mine before she let go. “Enjoy the evening, Seraphine.” She walked away without another word. I watched her disappear into the crowd. One thing was clear. Someone in this palace knew my family name. And they had hoped never to hear it again. Then the music stopped. Not slowly. Not by chance. One moment, the hall was full of sound. The next, silence fell so fast that even the servants froze. The doors at the top of the stairs opened. Draven Blackthorn entered. I had seen his face in newspapers and on the screens outside government buildings. None of those pictures had prepared me for the man himself. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a black suit that fit him like it had been made for war. His dark hair was brushed back from a face with sharp lines and a mouth that seemed made for giving orders, not smiles. But it was his eyes that held me. They were gold. Not brown with a touch of light. Not the warm gold of a candle. They were the deep, bright gold of a wolf’s eyes in the dark. He walked down the stairs without greeting anyone. People moved aside before he reached them. Even the guards lowered their heads. Draven did not need to ask for respect. He had trained the whole room to fear what would happen if they failed to give it. His gaze swept over the crowd. Then it stopped on me. My breath caught. It was a small thing, the way his steps slowed. Most people would not have noticed. But I had spent six years watching faces for signs of lies. I knew what it looked like when someone saw a ghost. Draven looked at me as if he had seen one. His jaw tightened. I looked away first, not because I was afraid, but because I needed him to think I was. A king who believed he had the upper hand was easier to fool. I slipped through the crowd toward the east wing. My mother’s letter had said the answer lay beneath the black crown. I had no idea what that meant, but I knew the palace archive held records of the old royal bloodlines. If anyone had written down what happened to Mirelle Voss, it would be there. The east wing was quieter. Two guards stood near a tall door carved with the same wolf-and-moon mark I had seen on the letter. I could not walk past them. So I waited. A servant came down the hall carrying a tray of empty glasses. I stepped into a side passage and let him pass. One guard turned to speak to the other. The second glanced toward the noise from the main hall. That was all the time I needed. I slipped behind a heavy curtain, found a narrow door, and eased it open. Dust filled my nose. The room beyond was small, with shelves from floor to ceiling. Old records lay in neat stacks beneath a thin layer of dust. A single lamp burned on a desk. I shut the door without a sound. “Come on,” I whispered to myself. I searched the shelves, reading names and dates until my eyes began to ache. Most of the records were dull lists of births, deaths, and marriages. Then I found a black leather book with a silver clasp. The cover bore the wolf and crescent. My fingers went cold. I opened it. Names filled the first few pages. Kings. Queens. Children born to noble houses. Some names had a line drawn through them. Others had been marked with a small black crown. Near the middle, I found my mother’s name. MIRELLE VOSS. Below it was a date. The date of her death. I read the words beneath it once. Then again. Condemned for blood treason. My mouth went dry. My mother had not died from a fever. She had been condemned. Someone had judged her, written it down, and hidden the truth from me. I turned the page with shaking fingers. A note had been written in a different hand at the bottom. The child must live. There was no name beside it. No reason. No answer to the question that had kept me awake for years. Who had wanted my mother dead? And who had fought to keep me alive? A floorboard creaked behind me. I turned. A man stood in the doorway. His face was hidden by a dark mask, and one hand rested on the knife at his belt. “You should not be here,” he said. I closed the book. “Then you should have locked the door.” He lunged. I moved before fear could hold me still. The knife hidden against my thigh slid into my hand. I ducked beneath his arm and struck his wrist. His blade hit the floor. He caught the front of my dress and slammed me against the shelf. Pain burst across my back. “Who sent you?” he growled. I drove my knee into his stomach. He grunted and loosened his grip. I shoved him away, grabbed the fallen knife, and ran. He was faster than I expected. His hand caught my hair. I twisted, leaving a few strands in his fist, and slashed at his arm. He cursed. I tore free and burst into the hall. A man stood at the far end. He had dark hair, a careless smile, and eyes that looked almost amused by the sight of me running from an armed guard. “Bad night?” he asked. “Move.” He glanced past me. The masked guard had reached the doorway. The smile faded from the stranger’s face. “Ah,” he said. “You found something.” He stepped aside and held out a small silver key. “Take the left stair. Third door. It leads to the lower passage.” “Why are you helping me?” “I’m not.” His gaze flicked toward the guard. “I’m making sure my brother deals with you himself.” Before I could ask what that meant, he walked away. The guard came after me. I took the key and ran down the left stair. At the bottom, I found the third door. The key fit. I slipped inside and shut it behind me. Darkness swallowed me. I stood still until my breathing slowed. Somewhere above, footsteps crossed the floor. A man’s voice followed. “You said the girl was dead.” My blood turned cold. Another voice answered. Draven. “She was supposed to be.” I pressed my hand over my mouth. The first man spoke again. “Does she know what she is?” “No.” “And if she learns?” A pause. “Then we have a problem.” I should have kept moving. I should have found a way out of the palace and taken the record to someone who could help me. But my mother’s name was still in that book. And Draven Blackthorn had just told someone I was supposed to be dead. I stepped out of the passage. He was standing at the far end of the hall, alone now, with one hand resting on the back of a chair. His guards were nowhere in sight. His gold eyes found me at once. “Seraphine Voss,” he said. I held the stolen page behind my back. “Your Majesty.” “Give me the record.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His mouth curved, but there was no warmth in it. “You are a poor liar.” “And you are a poor host.” For one brief moment, something like surprise crossed his face. Then he moved toward me. I took a step back. “Stay where you are.” He stopped. Not because I had ordered him to. Because he had seen my wrist. The sleeve of my dress had torn during the fight. A dark mark showed beneath the skin: a crescent moon crossed by three thin lines, shaped almost like claws. Draven stared at it. All the color left his face. “Where did you get that mark?” he asked. “I was born with it.” “Who told you that?” “My mother.” He looked at me as though the room had begun to tilt. Then he pulled back his own sleeve. The same mark lay on his wrist. Only his was darker. Black lines spread from it beneath his skin, like roots creeping through the earth. “What is that?” I whispered. “Something you should never have seen.” He reached for my wrist. I tried to pull away, but his fingers closed around me. His skin was cold. Mine was warm. The instant we touched, pain shot through my arm. The marks burned. Draven’s eyes flashed gold, then black. A low growl rose from his chest, deep enough to shake the glass in the nearest cabinet. I could not move. Neither could he. A voice filled the hall. It did not come from Draven. It did not come from me. It seemed to rise from the stone beneath our feet, old and full of grief. “The blood has returned.” Draven released me as if I had burned him. The black lines beneath his skin began to spread. Somewhere below us, behind a door hidden in the wall, something struck wood. Once. Twice. Then came a sound that made the blood drain from my face. A woman’s voice. My mother’s voice. “Seraphine, my child.” My knees nearly gave way. I had not heard that voice since I was a girl. “Do not let him break the curse.” The hidden door shook again. Draven drew a gun from beneath his jacket and aimed it at the wall. “What did you hear?” he demanded. I could barely breathe. “My mother.” “That is impossible.” “She is dead.” His face changed at those words. Not with pity. Not with shock. With fear. The voice came again, softer this time. “When the curse breaks, you will learn which of you was born to destroy the other.” Then silence. Draven stood frozen, his gun still raised. I looked at the man whose name had been written beside my mother’s death. The man who had said I was supposed to be dead. The man whose blood had awakened a voice from beyond the grave. “Who killed my mother?” I asked. He lowered the gun. “You need to leave this palace.” “I came here for the truth.” “And the truth will get you killed.” “Then tell me what you know.” His jaw flexed. For a moment, I thought he might answer. Instead, he turned toward the guards now rushing into the hall. “Lock every gate,” he ordered. “No one leaves the palace tonight.” Two guards seized my arms. I fought them, but Draven’s voice cut through the hall. “Touch her again without my order, and I will take your hands.” The guards let go. He looked at me. “Your life belongs to me now.” I laughed once, though there was no humor in it. “My life belongs to the person who killed my mother.” I brought the stolen page out from behind my back and held it up between us. “Do you know what I found beneath her name?” Draven did not answer. I turned the page toward him. There, beneath the words Condemned for blood treason, was another name. DRAVEN BLACKTHORN. And beside it, written in a hand I did not know, were three words. THE NEXT SACRIFICE. For the first time since he had entered the hall, the Mafia King looked afraid. And I knew one thing for certain. Whatever had killed my mother was not finished with us.