The faceless Don's obsession

Chapter 5: The Glass Mask

Vera

The click of the lock was a gunshot in the silent room. I was alone, surrounded by charcoal silk and the suffocating scent of jasmine, but the air still felt heavy with Marcelo’s presence. He had claimed me as his shadow, but as I paced the length of the plush rug, I felt more like a ghost, stuck between the life I had lost and the nightmare I was forced to inhabit.

Vitale. The name Marcelo had spat out sounded like a threat. I had lived in the periphery of the city's elite long enough to know that in families like the Silvanos, blood wasn't thicker than water, it was just a more convenient way to drown your rivals.

I went to the vanity, my hands trembling as I caught my reflection in the ornate gold-framed mirror. I looked like a stranger. The dirt was gone, my skin was glowing from the expensive oils, and the white silk robe draped over my frame like a surrender flag. But my eyes were still the same, stormy, terrified, and flickering with a dangerous spark of defiance.

I couldn't stay in this bed like a doll waiting for its owner. If Marcelo was heading into a cage with a vulture, I needed to know the layout of the trap.

I checked the door. Locked. I checked the windows. A two-story drop onto stone pavers. Then, I saw it, a small service door hidden behind a heavy velvet tapestry near the wardrobe. It was narrow, designed for the invisible staff to move through the house without disturbing the masters.

I didn't think. I just moved.

The service corridor was cramped and smelled of lemon oil and dust. I followed the sound of voices, my bare feet silent on the cold wood, until I reached a vent that looked down into the grand library.

Marcelo

The library was a room of Steel and shadows. I sat in my high-backed leather chair, my posture a masterpiece of feigned boredom. Across from me, I could hear the rhythmic clinking of ice against glass.

Vitale.

He smelled of over-applied bergamot and the metallic tang of cheap ambition. To the world, he was my cousin and loyal lieutenant. To me, he was a smudge of grey movement that I had to navigate with the precision of a minefield.

"You’ve been quiet, Marcelo," Vitale said, his voice a calculated drawl. "Ever since that little incident at the Velvet Key. Word on the street is you bought a De Ventura girl. A bit beneath your usual standards, isn't it?"

"My standards are my own, Vitale," I replied, my voice flat. I kept my eyes fixed on a point roughly where his throat would be. I couldn't see his expression, but I could hear the way his breathing hitched, a sign of irritation.

"Is she even alive? Or did you break her in the basement like the others?" Vitale stepped closer, the ice in his glass rattling louder. "The council is concerned. You’re becoming... reclusive. Some people are starting to wonder if you can still tell a friend from a foe in the dark."

He was probing. He was looking for the Condition. For fifteen years, I had maintained the illusion of perfect sight through sheer memorization and the help of Lorenzo, but Vitale was a predator who could smell a wound.

"If you're concerned about my vision, cousin, perhaps you should step closer," I said, my hand sliding toward the heavy brass letter opener on my desk. "I’ll show you exactly how clearly I see your intentions."

Suddenly, a soft sound echoed from above, a floorboard creaking in the service vent.

My heart stalled. Vera.

She was watching. And if she made a sound, if Vitale looked up and saw her, the secret of her importance, the fact that she was the only one I could truly see would be out.

Vera

I held my breath, my chest aching from the effort. From my vantage point, I could see the top of Marcelo’s head and the man standing across from him. This Vitale was shorter, dressed in a suit that was too loud for the somber room.

I watched Marcelo. He was perfectly still, but I could see the way his knuckles were white where he gripped the arms of his chair. He was blind to this man's face, relying only on the Audio of the room to survive.

"I don't think you see anything at all, Marcelo," Vitale whispered, leaning over the desk. He reached out a hand, moving it slowly toward Marcelo’s eyes, testing him. "I think you’re a king sitting on a throne of glass."

Marcelo didn't blink. He couldn't see the hand moving. He was a second away from being exposed.

I didn't think about the consequences. I didn't think about the Guilt or the cage. I only thought about the man who had looked at me in the basement and told me I was the only thing he had seen in fifteen years.

I reached out and shoved a heavy porcelain vase off the small shelf inside the vent.

It crashed onto the service floor with a deafening shatter.

"What was that?" Vitale spun around, his hand dropping instantly as he looked toward the walls.

"The house is old, Vitale. It has its ghosts," Marcelo said, his voice steady as a heartbeat, though I saw his shoulders relax by a fraction of an inch. "Just like our family. Now, leave. I have a guest waiting, and I find your presence... exhausting."

Vitale lingered, his scent of bergamot souring with frustration. "This isn't over, Marcelo. The council meets on Friday. Make sure you can recognize your allies. Or don't. It makes my job easier."

As Vitale’s footsteps receded, the library fell into a heavy, weighted silence. I pulled back from the vent, my heart racing, ready to run back to my room before the guards found me.

"Vera."

His voice traveled up through the ductwork like a physical touch. It wasn't a question. It was a summons.

"Come down here. Now."

Marcelo

I waited until I heard her moving through the service door at the back of the library. When she stepped into the light, she looked like a spirit, barefoot, her white robe flowing, her hair a wild halo of chestnut.

I stood up and walked toward her, my movements predatory. I didn't stop until she was backed against the mahogany bookshelves. The smell of old paper and leather, the Tactile history of my family, surrounded us.

"You followed me," I rasped, my hands coming up to cage her against the shelves.

"He was going to touch you," she said, her voice trembling but her gaze unwavering. "He was going to find out."

"Why do you care?" I growled, pinning her hard against the wall. My rough wool suit scraped against her thin silk robe as I forced my thigh between her legs. "You hate me. You called me a monster. Why save a monster from his own kin?"

Vera whimpered softly, her hands pushing weakly at my chest, her body trembling. I ground my thick, hard c**k slowly against her core, letting her feel every inch through the silk. My lips hovered just above hers, breaths mingling hotly, as her fearful eyes widened and a reluctant flush of heat stirred between her thighs.

"Because," she whispered, her hand rising, hovering just over my heart. "I’d rather deal with the monster I know than the vulture I don't."

I looked at her, really looked at her. I saw the flecks of gold in her green eyes. I saw the way her breath hitched in her throat. The Paranoia that she was a spy flared, but it was drowned out by a different kind of hunger.

I reached out, my fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck, pulling her head back just enough to expose the column of her throat.

"You saved me, Vera," I murmured, my lips brushing her ear. "That was your first mistake. In this world, a debt to a Don is never paid in words."

I moved my mouth to her jaw, my teeth grazing the skin. The Audio of her sharp intake of breath was the most beautiful thing I had heard in fifteen years.

"I’m going to make you regret that you ever chose to see me," I whispered against her skin.

But as I felt her hands curl into the fabric of my shirt, I knew the lie. I was the one who was drowning. And she was the only light I could see in the deep.