Alessandro knelt before Marco Vallenti, seated in his throne-like chair. His knuckles were split. Yet the blood dried between them wasn't his own.
The room felt cold—not because of the AC, but because of its owner, Marco Vallenti. His black suit fell perfectly without a single wrinkle, just as it had for the past sixteen years while he molded his only son.
Before him, a knife blade tapped softly against a marble plate. Tick. Tick. Tick. Louder than Alessandro's heartbeat.
His voice was flat, but every word fell like a gravestone. “Long enough to turn a boy into a weapon. Long enough to teach a rat how to kill a cat.”
A black folder slid toward Alessandro, its leather edges already scuffed. Inside were photos of Julian Thorne, a floor plan of the mansion, and a servant's uniform that smelled of cheap soap worn by hundreds of people.
“Three days from now,” Marco continued. He raised his knife, inspecting the reflection of his face in the steel. “Alessandro Vallenti dies. Only Leo Hart will be born. His daughter's personal servant. A shadow, until that knife sinks into Julian's heart.”
Alessandro lowered his head until his chin nearly touched his chest. It wasn't obedience. It was habit. Meeting his eyes meant challenging death. “Understood, Father.”
Marco stood. His footsteps made no sound. His cold palm pressed down on Alessandro's shoulder until his bones protested. His breath smelled of tobacco and hatred nurtured for far too long.
He bent down. His lips nearly brushed Alessandro's ear. “First rule,” he whispered, sharper than the blade. “Alessandro, a man doesn't cry. A man takes revenge.”
The pressure on Alessandro's shoulder increased. “Second rule. Pity is poison. Poison kills a king before the enemy does.”
“Third rule. The filthiest floor is beneath a king's feet. Clean it!”
“Fourth rule. Trust is the sharpest weapon. Stab them in the back.”
Marco paused for a moment. His breathing was heavy against Alessandro's ear. “Fifth rule. Blood can't be washed away, but it can be paid for with more blood.”
Alessandro nodded. His throat was dry. He had memorized those five sentences before he could even read. Five chains that had bound him since he was four years old.
In his mind, he had already carved Julian Thorne's face into memory. The line of his jaw. The faint scar on his left eyebrow. The man's smile in the photograph, like someone who had never lost anything.
His target. His enemy. His mother's killer.
The name Maria Vallenti flashed through his mind like a thrown knife. He still remembered the smell of mushroom soup in their tiny kitchen sixteen years ago. He remembered his mother's light laughter, before Marco came to take her away one night and she never returned. All that remained was a yellowing photo of Maria in his wallet and Marco's whisper every night. “Blood pays for blood, son. You must remember that.”
Marco released his shoulder. “You leave the day after tomorrow. Your Leo Hart identity is ready. Your adoptive father died, and you're an orphan in need of work. Perfect.” He pushed the folder toward him. “Memorize the floor plan. Sleep in the east hall. Stay near Alisia's room. It's the fastest route to Julian.”
Alisia Thorne. Julian Thorne's daughter. Alessandro had never seen her face, but he already hated her. Because of her blood. Because she was the daughter of the man who destroyed his family.
“Go,” Marco said. A sign that his instructions were complete.
Alessandro rose. His knees didn't tremble. That was the first thing Marco had destroyed in him—the knees that surrendered. He picked up the folder, its weight like death itself.
Before the door closed, Marco's voice stopped him. “Alessandro.”
He turned halfway.
Marco smiled, but the smile never reached his eyes. The same eyes Maria had looked into before that night. “Make me proud. For your mother, according to the Fifth rule.”
The door closed. And that night, Alessandro Vallenti buried his own name.
Three days later.
Alessandro stood before a seven-meter-high gate, his gaze fixed on the massive building under extremely tight security.
The Thorne mansion stood like a stronghold. White and towering, every window watching. A guard approached the gate, then spat on the ground right in front of Alessandro. “Are you one of the applicants?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Alessandro replied.
The man looked Alessandro over first, his eyes narrowing. As though a single mistake would cost him his life.
“Get in!” he ordered.
Alessandro obeyed. He walked toward the Thorne mansion with a smirk he kept hidden.
As instructed, Alessandro stood in line with the new servants. The marble beneath his knees was far cleaner and far colder. It smelled not of blood…but of jasmine and expensive soap.
Alessandro surveyed his surroundings—not only the servants, but the area as well, which was being guarded heavily by men in black.
Alessandro knew who they were: a group of highly trained guards with little room for error.
“Aren't you nervous?”
Thump!
Alessandro flinched slightly when one of the prospective servants beside him suddenly spoke to him.
“You look relaxed. Have you worked as a personal servant before?”
Alessandro shook his head. His mouth wouldn't open. Marco had never taught him how to speak casually with other people.
“This mansion is incredibly strict, so I'm really nervous. See the guards over there? Aren't they terrifying?” the man continued, but Alessandro remained silent. “But they say the young miss is really sweet, so I'm excited. I hope I get accepted.”
It was obvious that Alessandro had no interest whatsoever in the man's chatter.
But then the sound of high heels reached his ears. Tap! Tap! Tap!
Alessandro turned, his amber eyes catching sight of a woman descending the stairs.
Her long brown hair hung loose, and her eyes were blue—not black like her father's. She was beautiful, like a living doll.
Alessandro froze—not because of her beauty, but because of the strange stirring in his heart that he couldn't understand.