The Devil's Favorite Lie

The first gunshot didn't echo.

It whispered.

Soft, sharp-like the snap of a piano string pulled too tight. A sound not meant to be heard by ordinary ears. But Serena Montoya had never been ordinary.

Her fingers faltered on the keys, just barely-a tremble of hesitation mid-arpeggio. The soft gasp in her throat caught beneath the silken notes of Chopin's Nocturne in C-sharp minor. No one else reacted. Not yet.

But she had heard it.

Her spine straightened as if pulled by invisible threads. Her gaze swept the ballroom, past candlelit chandeliers and the twirl of gowns stitched with more diamonds than she'd ever see in her bank account. Laughter bubbled from one corner, champagne glasses clinked in another.

Everything looked normal. But something wasn't.

Something had shifted.

The air-it had teeth now. And the shadows along the eastern wing were swallowing light.

She kept playing.

Of course she did. She was paid to. She was the background-music without presence. One of the many illusions designed to make the Moretti family's annual gala seem elegant rather than opulent. Serena was the pianist tucked into the corner beneath the grand archway. Heard but not seen.

That's what they expected of her.

So she delivered it.

Her fingers moved automatically, summoning each note from memory while her heart thudded louder than the damask-covered walls could allow. Something was wrong. She felt it humming in her bones. And then-there.

A man in a blood-red tie stepped through the crowd. Not dancing. Not mingling. His face was tense, jaw locked tight. He brushed past a waiter, pushing him without apology, and disappeared behind one of the massive marble columns near the eastern corridor.

Another followed. Then a third.

Too fast. Too focused.

Serena's music slowed imperceptibly as her eyes followed them. Her stomach sank. She didn't belong in this world of silk lies and slick guns, but that didn't mean she was blind. She'd grown up in a neighborhood where deals were made in alleyways, where a certain type of silence always preceded chaos.

She knew what this was.

And yet-she kept playing.

A few more notes. A few more seconds of pretending.

Then came the scream.

It was small-feminine. The kind of scream that fought against fear, as if the woman knew to be quiet even in panic. Still, it cut through the music like broken glass. Several guests turned toward the sound, confusion shadowing their glitter-painted faces.

The music faltered. Conversations stuttered. Serena's hands froze mid-chord.

Then a second sound: the unmistakable clatter of something heavy against marble.

Not a tray.

A body.

Gasps followed. A woman dropped her drink. A man stood protectively in front of his wife. And from the same eastern corridor, now half-swallowed in smoke and low light, a figure stepped out.

Aurelio Moretti.

Serena had never seen him before-not in person-but she knew. Everyone knew who he was. The heir to the Moretti legacy. Son of the Devil, they whispered in back rooms and balconies. His name was power in this city. His presence was law.

But Serena didn't recognize him by reputation.

She recognized him by presence.

He walked like a man who knew the floor would move for him. Tall. Composed. No tie. Black-on-black suit tailored to fit a body born to carry danger. Tattoos peeked from his collar like secrets crawling up his skin.

His eyes-God, those eyes-cut through the room like knives dipped in ice.

And when they found hers...

It was like standing too close to a lit match. There was a heat. A knowing.

She'd seen too much.

And he had seen her see it.

Serena looked away instantly. Instinct. Survival. But her breath caught. Her fingers refused to move again. The keys beneath her hands felt foreign.

She needed to leave. Right now.

But before she could rise, he began to walk.

Toward her.

No-through the crowd, yes-but there was no mistake in his path. Guests parted like water as he advanced. No one dared speak. No one dared breathe.

And she-she sat frozen.

Memories from childhood whispered in the back of her mind. Don't look too long. Don't ask questions. Don't get involved. But she'd already failed all three rules.

He reached her in less than a minute.

He said nothing at first. Just studied her as if he were trying to decide whether to kill her or keep her.

She thought he might be beautiful, if not for the cruelty painted behind his expression. He didn't smile. Didn't offer a greeting. His presence was suffocating.

Then finally-

"Do you know what happens to little doves who stare too long at wolves?"

Serena's breath caught. Her voice came out softer than she wanted. "I didn't mean to stare."

He tilted his head, something unreadable glinting behind his storm-colored eyes.

"But you did."

His fingers moved suddenly-reaching not for her, but for something beside the piano. A single rose petal had fallen from the massive bouquet atop the polished lid. Red as sin. He picked it up and tucked it gently behind her ear.

It should've been romantic.

But it felt like a warning.

"I don't like being watched," he said, his tone quiet-measured. "But lucky for you..."

He leaned in.

"I like mysteries."

And with that, he turned.

Walked away.

Left her breathless and shaking and completely undone.

Serena didn't remember playing the rest of the night. Somehow her hands moved. Somehow her body functioned. But her soul stayed trapped in those three seconds of contact.

That was the night it began.

The night she learned that some men don't just play games.

They write the rules.

And the Devil-her Devil-had just chosen his favorite lie.

Her.