Azalea Faye Larau - The sweetheart socialite with a fire underneath and an up and coming ballet dancer in London striving to stay afloat in an ocean of sharks, all the while dealing with heartbreak and loss.
Harlan Emeric Marchetti - The Italian Maf...
"When I take a look at my life and all of my crimes, you're the only thing that I think I got right."
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- H A R L A N - E M E R I C - M A R C H E T T I -
The sunlight spilled across the floor like liquid gold, stretching from the base of the windows to the far wall, softening the marble beneath my bare feet. The estate was quiet—too quiet, perhaps—but the silence suited me.
I never cared for unnecessary noise, and now, after everything, the only sound I needed was the distant echo of Azalea's soft footsteps in the garden and the occasional rustle of wind disturbing the vines creeping up the archways.
She looked like she belonged there.
Out beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, Azalea wandered among the blooms I'd had fixed up just days before her arrival.
Wildflowers, delicate roses, fragrant wisteria trailing from their trellises like ribbons caught in the breeze. She moved like a painting brought to life, one brushstroke at a time—soft, vivid, untouchable.
She tilted her head to inspect a pink flower blooming against a stone path, and I watched the corner of her mouth lift, serene and unsuspecting. The kind of smile that came from a life untouched by the kind of violence I've built my empire on.
That innocence was dangerous. Not because it made her weak, but because it made her precious.
A target.
My jaw clenched the longer I watched her. The longer I let myself feel that heat in my chest—that steady pull I never wanted, never planned for, but welcomed all the same.
Then my phone on the table buzzed once, then again. Persistent. Annoying.
My gaze remained fixed on her for another second longer—memorizing the way the light hit her hair, the way her fingertips trailed along a bloom like she was whispering to it—before I finally reached for the phone and answered it.
"What?" My voice came out low and measured. The way it always did when I didn't want to be interrupted. The way it always came when I knew something was wrong.
"It's Ramiro," Came the voice on the other end, "You're not going to like this."
I stayed quiet, looking back at my butterfly as he continued to speak.
"It's Harvey. He's pacing and he's really fucking nervous, saying now's not the time for you to be... playing husband."
The silence between us stretched like wire pulled taut.
"I suppose he's forgotten that he walked into my wedding unannounced after being dead for the last five years." I said coolly, my voice dangerously calm.
