The Sinner

1 | Alizeh

I have a passionate dislike for people and socializing. Tonight, that aversion felt sharper as I sat at the piano, playing for people I loathes from the bottom of my heart.

The cold metal of the butterfly knife pressed against my back, its icy touch searing my warm skin. My fingers danced across the keys, coaxing soft, haunting notes from the piano.

Claire de Lune filled the air, its melancholic tones weaving through the quiet murmur of conversation.

It had taken me four days to master the piece—a feat that normally requires years of practice. But I’m a genius, and desperation is a powerful motivator.

This piece is a favorite piece of Luciano Dimitrov.

I shouldn’t be here. My very presence in this mansion is equivalent to signing my own death warrant. But I have no choice. This is the only way to infiltrate without drawing attention.

So here I am, risking everything.

This is for him. For my best friend. For the man who once saved me.

I repeat this mantra over and over in my mind as my gaze drifts to the men in question: Luciano Dimitrov and his sidekick friend, Brionii.

I know their secrets. I know the monsters lurking behind their polished masks.

The melody rises and falls like the steady beat of my heart—calm on the surface, but beneath, a storm of tension rages. From the corner of my eye, I observe the servers in formal attire setting up the dining table. At the head sits Mr. Luciano Dimitrov, a man who commands attention and respect.

As the head of the esteemed Cosa Nostra, he plays the role of consummate host—charming and sinister in equal measure.

His dark, hollow eyes and artificial smile belie an insatiable hunger within. He has no interest in anyone but himself.

The man’s bloodlust cannot be suppressed. He only cares about power and control.

I had heard whispers and stories of his insatiable appetite to dominate lives and bend them to his will. The more I learned of his depravities, the more my stomach churned. He would manipulate, exploit, and destroy without remorse to get what he wanted. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.

My focus shifts to the man beside him: Zayne Dimitrov.

Man is the angel of death.

A fallen angel destined to inherit the Cosa Nostra throne. Behind those sharp, chiseled features brews a sinister darkness.

Cruel and calculated.

The brewing storm in a calm ocean.

That man thrives on being in charge.

Control freak.

Some even allege he’s a psychopath, a cold-blooded Satan in human form.

In his opinion, true power lies not in violence but in the infliction of bone-chilling fear. He uses his twisted skill to entrap victims’ minds, using mental pain as a weapon until they think death is their only option. His wrath is unavoidable if you cross him.

He reminds me of the wolf—a lone wolf on the hunt.

He is attractive, and any blind person can say it. His eyes are pools of jade, an endless forest maze that captures souls. In darkness, they glow like shiny precious stones, illuminated by hidden flame. Hypnotic enough that can definitely leave all living things breathless.

I included.

His strong jawline was graced by rugged stubble. Straight nose, prominent cheekbones and full lips look like they’re sculpted by artists. His wavy dark hair is perfectly glued. Not even a strand is out of place. I have never seen someone with such shade of dark hair.