BENEATH THE VELVET GUN

Lyra's POV The last time I saw my sister, she was wearing red lipstick and a smile she didn’t mean. She told me she was going out for a "business opportunity." She never came back. Five years later, her side of the closet is still untouched, and I sleep with a switchblade under my pillow. That’s not an exaggeration—I live in a neighborhood where people steal dogs, and not even cute ones. So when an envelope slides under my apartment door at 3:03 in the morning with nothing but a black business card and an address I’ve never seen before, I do what any emotionally unstable woman would do. I pack my bag and go. After all, curiosity didn’t kill the cat. It just severely messed up her credit score and dragged her into a situation that smelled like gunpowder and expensive cologne. I should’ve stayed in bed. But I’ve never been good at doing what I should. --- The building looks like a hotel for assassins. Black steel, no signs, no windows, just a single glass door that opens automatically when I approach. I half-expect a voice to say “Welcome to your doom,” but instead, soft jazz plays as I step inside. A woman in a gray suit greets me with a neutral face that probably hasn’t smiled since 2007. "Lyra Santiaga?" she says. I nod. "This way." No small talk. Just vibes. We walk down a hallway that’s too clean, too quiet. My sneakers squeak with every step like they’re trying to announce, Hey everyone, here comes the broke girl with trauma issues! The woman opens a door without knocking. Inside: a single chair, a desk, and a black folder resting on top like it’s about to change my life. "Wait here," she says, and leaves me with it. I eye the folder like it might bite. I should walk out. I should burn the folder. I should do a lot of things. Instead, I sit. I open it. And for a second, I forget how to breathe. There, on the first page, is a picture of my sister. Not a police photo. Not the one I gave the press. This is different. She’s in a silk dress. Her hair is curled. She’s holding a glass of champagne and smiling at someone off-camera. And standing behind her, one hand casually placed on her back, is a man I’ve seen in whispers and rumors and blurred security footage. Damien Virelli. A name like a razor. A man no one meets twice. The billionaire who vanished from public life a decade ago but somehow still runs half the city's underground. The man whose mansion is off-limits to the press, the law, and everyone with a moral compass. And apparently… The man offering me a job. There’s a second page. It’s a contract. "Position: Private Secretary. Confidential residence. Strict NDAs. Six-month commitment. Compensation: $500,000 upon completion." I laugh. Loudly. Then I look around like someone might pop out and yell “Pranked!” But no. It’s real. My hands are shaking. Because I know what this means. Damien Virelli was the last man to be seen with my sister. And now he’s inviting me into his house? Oh, I’m taking that job. Not for the money. For the answers. For the fire that’s been burning in my ribs since the night they closed her case. --- Later that week “You’re either brave,” says the driver picking me up, “or incredibly stupid.” I give him a tight-lipped smile. “Little of both. But mostly bored.” He doesn’t laugh. No one in this world seems to. The car is bulletproof, black, and smells like leather and secrets. It takes me through streets I’ve never seen—quiet, gated, polished like movie sets. The kind of neighborhood where crime exists, but only if it wears a suit. Then we reach it. The mansion. No, scratch that—castle. It’s modern, all glass and sharp lines, but the air around it feels like a warning. The gate opens slowly. And my stomach tightens. I remind myself: I’m not here to flirt. I’m not here to play games. I’m here to find out what happened to my sister. But the second I step out of the car, a man in black is waiting at the top of the steps. I know it’s him before he says a word. Damien Virelli. He’s taller than I expected. Broader. His black button-down hugs a body that wasn’t built in boardrooms. His hair is tousled like he woke up and decided chaos was fashionable. His eyes? Cold. Silver. Like they’d look better staring down a rifle scope than at a resume. “Miss Santiaga,” he says. His voice is low. Smooth. The kind of voice that should come with a warning label. “You’ve come.” I swallow. “You summoned.” He stares at me for a long second. Then—God help me—he smirks. And it’s not a nice smirk. It’s a I-know-things-that-could-break-you kind of smirk. “I think we’re going to have fun,” he murmurs, turning away. I follow, mentally writing my will. --- Inside the house, it’s darker than expected. Black floors. Black walls. Curtains drawn. Shadows in every corner. “This will be your room,” he says, pushing open a door. It’s bigger than my entire apartment. “Any questions?” “Yeah,” I say, crossing my arms. “Why me?” He stops. Doesn’t turn around. “Because you’re curious enough to say yes,” he says. “But reckless enough to break things. I like that.” “That’s not an answer.” He finally looks at me. “Don’t go to the third floor.” I blink. “That’s oddly specific.” He smiles without warmth. “You’ll understand later.” Then he’s gone. No explanations. No welcome package. No wine. Just silence. --- That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. The silence here isn’t peaceful. It’s heavy. Alive. And I know—deep down—that something is watching. Or someone. I don’t sleep. Instead, I sit up and open my laptop. And I start searching. Damien Virelli. My sister. Velvet rooms. Black folders. Vanished women. But every link leads nowhere. Every article is scrubbed. Every picture is gone. Except one. A photo from five years ago. Damien. My sister. And a car. A black car with velvet seats. I zoom in. And in the reflection of the window— My blood runs cold. It’s me. Standing at the edge of the street. I was there. The night she vanished. And I never even knew. ---