THE PRICE OF SIN

GHOSTS AND REVELATIONS

Chapter 5

Elena's scream died in her throat as she stared at the security monitor. The figure on her couch had her father's profile, his posture, even his habit of running his hand through his hair when he was thinking. But it was impossible. She'd watched them lower David Rossi's casket into the ground just yesterday.

She blinked hard and looked again. The monitor showed only an empty couch, shadows playing tricks in the dim apartment lighting.

"Something wrong, principessa?"

Elena spun around to find Lorenzo directly behind her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. She hadn't heard him approach—how did someone that large move so silently?

"I thought I saw..." Elena trailed off, realizing how insane it would sound.

"Saw what?" Lorenzo's eyes followed her gaze to the security monitor, which now showed nothing but her empty apartment.

"Nothing. I'm just tired."

Lorenzo studied her face with those penetrating dark eyes. "Grief can play tricks on the mind. Make you see things that aren't there, hear voices that have been silenced."

There was something in his tone—not quite sympathy, but understanding. Like he spoke from experience.

"Have you ever lost someone?" Elena asked before she could stop herself.

Lorenzo's expression shuttered immediately. "Rule #9: Don't ask personal questions."

But Elena had caught something in his eyes before the walls went back up. Pain. Deep, old pain that he kept buried beneath layers of ice and cruelty.

"Vincent." Lorenzo's voice carried across the club. "Escort Miss Rossi to her room. The evening is over."

Elena glanced around the club. Most of the clients had left, but a few remained—Professor Mitchell still nursing his whiskey, a man she didn't recognize counting a large stack of cash at a corner table.

"What about them?"

"Not your concern." Lorenzo was already walking away, dismissing her like she was nothing more than hired help.

Which, Elena realized with a bitter twist in her stomach, was exactly what she was.

Vincent appeared at her elbow. "Come on, Miss. Boss wants you upstairs."

The elevator ride was silent, Vincent staring straight ahead while Elena tried to process everything she'd witnessed. The corruption, the blackmail, the casual way Lorenzo wielded power over people's lives—it was overwhelming.

"Vincent?" Elena said as they reached her floor.

He grunted, which she took as acknowledgment.

"How long have you worked for the Santangelos?"

Vincent's jaw tightened. "Long enough."

"Do you ever regret it?"

Vincent stopped walking and turned to face her. Up close, Elena could see that his scars weren't just on his knuckles—they covered his arms, disappearing beneath his shirt sleeves. Old wounds, healed but not forgotten.

"You think you got choices in this world?" Vincent's voice was rough, like he didn't use it often. "You think any of us got choices?"

"Everyone has choices."

"That's what people with easy lives tell themselves." Vincent resumed walking. "Boss saved my life when I was sixteen. Stepfather was beating me to death with a crowbar. Boss found me in an alley, bleeding out, and took me to his family's doctor instead of a hospital."

Elena felt a chill. "Why not a hospital?"

"Because hospitals ask questions. And questions get people killed." Vincent stopped at her door and swiped the key card. "You want some advice, Miss? Stop looking for the good in people. In this world, good gets you buried."

Elena entered her apartment, and the door locked behind her with its now-familiar electronic beep. She leaned against it, trying to process Vincent's words. Was he warning her about Lorenzo? Or about the world she'd been dragged into?

She walked to the window and looked out at the city lights below. Somewhere out there, her old life continued without her. Mia was probably studying for their psychology exam, Professor Mitchell was probably grading papers (when he wasn't gambling away his salary), and her classmates were worrying about normal things like grades and boyfriends and whether they'd find jobs after graduation.

Elena pressed her forehead against the cool glass. Would she ever have that kind of normalcy again? Or was she trapped in Lorenzo's dark world forever?

A soft knock at her door made her jump. That was impossible—the door was electronically locked, and only Lorenzo and his people had access.

The knock came again, gentle and persistent.

Elena approached the door cautiously. "Hello?"

"Elena? It's me."

Elena's blood turned to ice. That voice—she'd know it anywhere, even though she'd heard it for the last time a week ago.

"Dad?" The word came out as barely a whisper.

"Elena, baby, open the door. I need to talk to you."

Elena's hands shook as she reached for the door handle, but it wouldn't turn. Still locked. But the voice continued, muffled but unmistakable.

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I never wanted this to happen to you. I tried to protect you, but I made so many mistakes."

Tears streamed down Elena's face. "Dad, how are you here? I saw them bury you. I watched—"

"Listen to me carefully. Lorenzo Santangelo is more dangerous than you know. He's not just collecting a debt—he's planning something bigger. Something that involves you specifically."

Elena pressed her ear to the door, desperate to hear every word. "What do you mean?"

"Your mother didn't die in a car accident, Elena. She was—"

The voice cut off abruptly.

Elena pounded on the door. "Dad? Dad, what about Mom? What were you trying to tell me?"

Silence.

Elena slumped against the door, sobbing. She was losing her mind. Grief, stress, and fear were making her hallucinate. Dead people didn't knock on doors. Dead people didn't have conversations.

But the voice had been so real, so perfectly her father's...

Elena walked to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face, trying to ground herself in reality. In the mirror, she looked like a stranger—the revealing dress, the smudged makeup, the wild look in her eyes. Twenty-four hours ago, she'd been Elena Rossi, psychology student. Now she was someone she didn't recognize.

Her phone buzzed with another message: "Sweet dreams, principessa. Tomorrow you meet the VIP clients. I hope you're ready."

Elena stared at the text, then at her reflection. Lorenzo thought he was breaking her, reducing her to a frightened girl who would do whatever he demanded.

But as she looked at herself in the mirror, Elena felt something unexpected stirring in her chest. Not just fear or anger, but determination. Maybe even defiance.

Lorenzo Santangelo had taken everything from her—her father, her freedom, her innocence. But he hadn't taken her mind. And if her psychology studies had taught her anything, it was that every person had vulnerabilities, even predators like Lorenzo.

She just had to figure out what his were.

Elena was about to turn away from the mirror when she noticed something that made her heart stop.

Written in the condensation on the bathroom mirror, in handwriting she recognized, were three words:

"Trust no one."

But she was alone in the apartment. The doors were locked. The windows were sealed.

So who had written the message?

And why did it look like it had been written from inside the mirror, not outside it?