Rosalia
If I had a nickel for every time a creepy dude crashed my day with a villain monologue, I’d be retired in a penthouse, not stuck in an underground cult cave with a journal everyone wants and a portal spitting out my least favorite people. Andre Romano, Enzo’s slimy son, is standing there, smirking like he just won the evil lottery, while this mysterious “mother’s kin” lady glows like a budget wizard. Angelo’s bleeding out beside me, the silver wolf’s chained and howling, and I’m one bad choice away from turning this cave into a reality show meltdown. Welcome to my life, where trust is a myth, and betrayal’s the dress code.
Andre’s eyes lock on me, all smug and predatory, like I’m a prize he’s already claimed. “Rosalia,” he drawls, stepping closer, his tailored suit absurdly clean
