The Devil's Table
1011 Words
Dinner with the DeLucas wasn’t a meal—it was a declaration.
Alessia realized that the moment she stepped into the candlelit dining hall, her heels clicking softly on the black marble. Everything about the room was designed to intimidate—from the twenty-foot ceilings lined with hand-painted frescoes to the long table dressed in white linen, gold-plated cutlery, and crystal so clear it shimmered like ice.
The men already seated at the table didn’t need introductions.
She knew who they were.
She had memorized their faces, their files, their crimes.
Adriano DeLuca—Lorenzo’s younger cousin and known enforcer—sat to the left, smirking over his wineglass with a predator’s gaze.
Silvio Romano—trusted consigliere and former arms dealer—barely spared her a glance as he tapped ash into a small dish beside his plate.
To the right of Lorenzo sat two captains she didn’t recognize from any intel. Older, sharper-eyed, probably old-school muscle from Naples. They were the kind of men who only rose to power by climbing over corpses and staying out of courtrooms.
“Gentlemen,” Lorenzo said, resting a hand lightly on her lower back as they reached the head of the table, “this is Eva LaRoux. She’s come a long way to be here.”
Every man turned toward her.
Every glance was a test.
Every smile, a warning.
Alessia didn’t blink. She met them each in turn with just enough cold elegance to show she wasn’t prey—but not so much heat to draw fire. She’d been trained for this.
They just didn’t know it.
“A pleasure,” she said, her voice smooth as polished glass.
Adriano leaned forward, his voice oiled and amused. “France, right? Paris?”
She offered a neutral nod. “Born in Lyon. Raised between there and Geneva.”
“Must be quite the adjustment,” Silvio muttered, finally giving her a proper look. “This city chews people up if they blink too slow.”
“I don’t blink,” she replied with a soft smile.
The table laughed—tightly.
Lorenzo pulled out the seat beside his and gestured for her to sit. “Eva has business experience that may benefit our logistics branch,” he said, settling into his own chair. “She’s also proven useful in discreet matters.”
“Discreet?” Adriano raised a brow. “That’s an expensive word.”
“Only for people with secrets,” Alessia replied lightly.
Another test passed.
Servants began to move around the table, laying down plates: grilled sea bass, risotto infused with truffle oil, imported olives in gold-rimmed bowls. It looked like a feast, but it felt like a chessboard.
As wine was poured, the conversations grew more strategic—supply routes, port taxes, new customs officers that had been “convinced” to look the other way.
Alessia listened without interruption, committing every detail to memory. Gabriel would’ve called it “intel harvesting.” She called it survival.
Adriano kept glancing at her, the way a wolf might glance at something he wasn’t sure was meat or a trap.
“So,” he said finally, swirling his wine, “Eva, what exactly did Lorenzo see in you?”
Lorenzo’s jaw tensed.
But Alessia spoke before he could.
“Vision,” she said calmly. “And I don’t waste his time with ambition I can’t back up.”
Adriano smirked. “Big words.”
“They’re true.”
Silvio tapped the edge of his knife on his plate. “Everyone at this table has spilled blood for this seat. For loyalty. If we’re bringing someone new in—even a consultant—there are rules.”
Lorenzo’s voice was firm. “She’s not here to replace anyone.”
“Still,” Silvio said, “if she’s going to know our routes, our movements, our secrets… then she takes the oath.”
That silenced the table.
Lorenzo sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s outdated.”
“It’s tradition,” Adriano countered. “Even I took it. You made me.”
Alessia could feel it—the fire under the table rising.
She’d studied the DeLuca initiation rites. The symbolic cut. The blood oath. The code of silence—Omertà—wasn’t just words. It was legacy. Fear dressed as honor.
“If that’s what’s required,” she said softly, “then give me the blade.”
Lorenzo’s gaze snapped to hers. “Eva—”
“I came here to earn your trust, not borrow it,” she said. “Let’s stop pretending there’s another way.”
Silvio reached into his coat and withdrew a ceremonial knife. The steel was narrow and old, with a handle shaped like a snake coiled around a cross.
He placed it on the table.
The room went still.
Alessia rose.
Every heartbeat pounded in her ears. She stepped forward, took the knife, and without hesitation, dragged the blade lightly across the palm of her left hand. Just enough to draw blood. It ran down her wrist and hit the floor with a quiet splatter.
She turned to face the men.
“I swear loyalty to the table,” she said clearly. “To silence, to strength, to vengeance. My blood belongs to the Family.”
The words echoed.
Silvio gave a single nod. Adriano stared like he’d just watched a ghost walk through fire. Lorenzo, meanwhile, looked half furious, half impressed.
Alessia handed the knife back.
Someone poured her a new glass of wine. She took it, hand bleeding into the napkin she’d pressed against the cut.
Lorenzo’s voice was quiet as he leaned toward her. “You didn’t need to do that.”
“Yes,” she said, holding his eyes. “I did.”
They finished dinner in tense silence. And when the table was cleared, she rose with them, her fingers still slightly red. No one asked her questions. No one doubted her again.
She had earned a seat among monsters.
Now she just had to poison the wine.
- Writer
