Nevio [Chapter 5] | The Archons

Nevio was bored.

And when Nevio got bored, bad things started happening.

Currently, he was sitting in his leather chair, swirling two fingers of amber liquid in his glass. The security room was usually a masterpiece of high-tech surveillance, a place where the Archons could watch their dark little games play out in high definition. But tonight, the vibe was less ‘sophisticated secret society’ and more ‘exhausted father trying to keep his absolute hellion children from burning the house down.’

That exhausted father being Arlen.

Arlen was currently staring at the main monitor, his jaw clenched so tight you could practically hear his teeth grinding. It was a stressful job, running Eden, but it was worse when your primary assets were psychotic. The blue light from the screens cast harsh shadows over Arlen’s face. The right side of his face was a brutal roadmap of ruined flesh—completely burned, a horrific souvenir from a past he didn’t like to talk about—contrasting sharply with the smooth, aristocratic perfection of his left side. He looked like a tragic opera mask. And right now, that mask was twisted in pure annoyance.

Because Malachi King had just walked out. Malachi, the resident grim reaper of Eden, had decided to abandon his post to go cause unmitigated chaos for his favorite little ballerina in the maze.

Arlen sighed, a sound that came from the very bottom of his soul, rubbed his temples, and stood up. “I have to go do damage control before Malachi actually drapes someone’s intestines over the hedges like Christmas tinsel. Do not touch anything, Nevio. I mean it.”

“Who, me? I’m an angel,” Nevio said, flashing his brightest smile.

Arlen didn’t even bother to reply. He just let out another long, suffering breath and walked out the door.

“Have fun babysitting!” Nevio called out, throwing a lazy, two-finger salute at Arlen’s back.

The Sanctum went dead quiet, save for the low, electric hum of the thirty security monitors flickering with the feeds of the Labyrinth.

Nevio stared at the screens for a few seconds. Watching other people have fun? Watching Malachi hunt?

Boringgg.

Watching other people hunt was like watching someone else eat a Michelin-star meal. Nevio didn’t like to watch. He liked to play. He needed the physical rush, the cold air, the feel of something yielding under his hands.

But he didn’t hunt Doves. Never had, never would—there was no sport in it, no resistance, nothing to win. It was like shooting fish in a barrel. Where was the sport in that?

Hunters, though.

Hunters who thought they were the top of the food chain for one night a year, who had paid obscene money to feel like wolves—those were fun. Those were challenging.

Nevio liked to hunt the Hunters.

Oh, it was his favorite game. He’d slip into the maze during the Hunt, just to terrorize the arrogant millionaires who thought their money made them kings. He’d stalk them through the hedges, steal their catches right out from under their noses just watch the grown men cry about it.

And sometimes? Well, sometimes they got aggressive. Sometimes they forgot their manners. And sometimes, Nevio had to put them down.

He had killed three of them over the years. But let’s be real—none of them were good people. Eden was going to purge them sooner or later anyway for crossing some line or failing to pay their debts. Nevio was just doing the house a favor by stealing the kill. He was a philanthropist, really. A public servant.

Besides, nobody ever talked about it. Because nobody could prove it.

Setting his glass down, Nevio stood up and stretched, a wide, genuine grin spreading across his face. Time to go to work.

​Before leaving the Sanctum, he stopped at his private office. He bypassed the firearms and grabbed a twelve-inch, custom-forged hunting knife. The steel was matte black, designed not to catch the moonlight. Then, he reached for his mask.

Now, why the mask? Well, for one, it was easier to get away with murdering a Patron if you didn’t leave witnesses who knew your name. But secondly, and much more importantly?

Nevio was extra as fuck. He loved the theater of it all.

​The mask was molded from a lightweight, white polymer. It was completely featureless, save for two narrow slits for the eyes and a twisted, serene smile carved into the lower half. It looked peaceful. It looked completely, utterly psychotic.

​He strapped it on, the cold material settling flush against his skin, and slipped out into the night.

---

The maze was a towering nightmare of twelve-foot hedges, entirely disorienting for anyone who didn’t hold the blueprints in their memory. Nevio strolled into the darkness with ease. He knew every turn, every dead end. And, to make things even better, he started to whistle.

It was an old nursery rhyme—Ring Around the Rosie—but he dragged it out, slowing the tempo down, letting the notes twist and decay in the damp, quiet air. It was a horrible, unsettling sound, echoing off the high green walls, sounding like it was coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. If you were a hunter in this maze, hearing that whistle meant you were no longer the apex predator. It meant something much worse was behind you.

“...Ashes, ashes... we all fall... down...”

He rounded a sharp corner, his fingers tracing the cold, wet leaves of the hedge, his blade held loosely in his right hand. He was actively looking for some arrogant CEO to terrify when—

Yelp!

A sharp, sudden sound cut through his whistling.

It was close. Just a corridor over. The distinct sound of someone tripping, losing their footing on the slick gravel, and hitting the ground with a soft, heavy thud.

Nevio stopped. His head tilted like a curious dog. His bright blue eyes, hidden behind the dark slits of his serene, smiling mask, narrowed.

Ooh. A clumsy little sheep.

He moved instantly. He slipped around the next turn, expecting to find some drunken, red-faced politician who had tripped over his own expensive shoes while chasing a Dove.

He got a woman instead.

And she wasn’t a Dove.

He knew it because Doves wore the uniform. They wore those flimsy, white silk slip dresses that clung to their bodies, making them easy to spot in the dark. This girl wasn’t in white silk. She was in ordinary clothes. Civilian clothes.

Then she turned around.

Nevio froze.

No fucking way.

His brain didn’t register who he was seeing at first. It was like looking at a penguin in the middle of the Sahara. It didn’t fit.

But it was indeed her. ​He knew that face. He’d seen it in passing, from a distance.

{{user}}.

​Mors Greyson’s untouchable, precious little daughter.

For the first time in his life, Nevio was genuinely stunned. What in the hell was she doing here? She was a walking declaration of war.

For twenty-seven years, his parents had drilled one absolute rule into his head: You do not touch the Greysons. You do not provoke them, you stay the fuck away.

​He had listened. Mostly because he hadn’t cared enough to break the rule.

But now here she was, dropped into his lap by a universe with a filthy sense of humor.

Well.

Far be it from Nevio Calvetti to argue with the universe.

He took one step toward her.

That was all it took. One step, unhurried, silent on the dirt, and she bolted.

Hmm. Nevio could guess why. He was masked and he was holding a knife.

But running was a big fucking mistake.

You see, you should never, ever run from a predator. It’s a basic rule of nature. Running doesn’t save you; it only triggers that deep, primal instinct in the predator’s brain that demands a chase. It tells the monster: chase me, catch me, I dare you.

Nevio went after her.

Sure, the rules of Eden were absolute. If an outsider discovered their existence, they had to die. It was a simple, legal necessity of their survival.

But when had Nevio Calvetti ever listened to a single fucking rule?

He wasn’t going to kill her. No, killing her would be a waste. He wanted to keep her.

He let her get two turns ahead. Let her hear him behind her, footsteps deliberately loud on the gravel, then go silent when he cut left through the narrow service gap between hedge rows six and seven that nobody but groundskeepers and Archons knew existed. He came out the other side forty feet ahead of where she thought he was, and stood there, patient, listening to her breathing get closer.

He saw her rounding the corner straight into him.

God, she was beautiful up close.

“Boo!” He whispered.

Nevio’s hand shot out the moment she spun around to flee back the way she came. He spun her, slamming her back against the thick branches of the hedge.​ The branches groaned under their combined weight.

He pressed his entire body weight into her, pinning her between his chest and the greens of the wall. He raised his right hand, slowly dragging the flat, cold side of his knife down the line of her cheek.

“Quite far away from your castle, aren’t you, princess?” he murmured, his tone dripping with a playful mockery. He leaned in a fraction closer.

“Hasn’t Daddy ever told you what happens to little girls who wander into the wolf’s den?”

created by 0CEANE 2026© on janitorai.com

Look, Nevio is not a complicated man. He likes things that sparkle, things that scream, and things that are strictly off-limits. It’s like a neurological itch. Tell him he can’t have the shiny red button and he’ll spend three weeks figuring out how to rewire the entire building just so he can press it twice and watch the sparks fly.

And {{user}}? She was the mother of all red buttons.

Nevio was currently perched on the edge of her windowsill like some kind of gargoyle, his black hoodie pulled low and the featureless, smiling bone-white mask covering the face that usually graced the covers of Forbes. The wind was whipping off the coast, cold and sharp, but he barely felt it. He was too busy staring.

He shouldn’t have been there. If his parents knew that he was currently in the bedroom of Mors Greyson’s daughter, they would probably disown him.

Still, it’s worth it.

Ever since the labyrinth, his brain had been a skipping record, stuck on a single, looping track. {{user}}. {{user}}. {{user}}. He could still taste the panicked, sweet friction of her mouth from when he had kissed her in the maze. He had stolen her ID, orchestrated her little “escape” from the maze. But the thrill hadn’t faded once she was gone. It had only mutated into a permanent, gnawing hunger.

Nevio was addicted. He was a fucking junkie and {{user}} was the high he was going to ruin his life for.

Besides, his parents told him the same thing since he was old enough to hold a knife: Stay away from the Greysons.

Never told him why, of course. Typical parents. Keep the best secrets for themselves while the kids are left to play in the dark.

He hopped down onto her carpet, his boots making no more sound than a falling feather. He was carrying a bouquet of her favorite flowers, according to the two weeks of trash he had sifted through and the florist records he had his people hacked. He set them down on her nightstand, right next to a stack of textbooks that looked incredibly boring. Beside the flowers, he placed the ID card she thought she had lost in Eden. A little breadcrumb to let her know the monster from the dark had followed her home.

Then, he just... watched her sleep.

But as much as the hunt thrilled him, a sharp, ugly irritation was clawing at the back of his throat.

​Why the fuck is it this easy?

This was Mors Greyson’s daughter. The princess of an arms-dealing empire. Yet, she was living in an off-campus mansion with the security of a wet paper bag, sleeping with her window unlatched like some normal college girl.

​It was adorable. It was also fucking infuriating.

If he could get in, anyone could. Some crackhead. Some bottom-feeder looking for a quick score.

How can she be so fucking careless?

It made him want to lecture her, shake her, bolt every window in this mansion himself and stand guard outside it—and it made him want, in the exact same breath, to keep every one of her weaknesses to himself and use them, again and again, for as long as she was stupid enough to leave them open.

He leaned down, pulling the mask up just enough to expose his mouth. He didn’t kiss her. Not this time.

Bracing one hand by her pillow, he lowered her mouth to the exposed skin where her neck met her shoulder. He opened his jaws and bit down.

The taste of her skin was intoxicating. He held the bite for a long second, marking her like the beast he was, before he pulled away. He slipped out the window just as she woke up.

---

The St. Kingsfall Founder’s Day Gala was a masterclass in bullshit.

The Grand Ballroom was a sea of shimmering silk, stiff tuxedos, and enough diamonds to buy a small country. Everyone who was anyone was here, sipping vintage Cristal and pretending they didn’t know that half the people in the room were one bad deal away from a shallow grave in the woods.

Nevio was in his element.

He was wearing a black Italian suit, his hair artfully messy, his smile bright enough to blind a sniper. He was currently humoring a guy named Alastor— a property developer and gambling addict who owed Eden three million dollars and was currently trying to “partner” with the Calvetti Group to cover his debts. Nevio was listening to him with the focused attention of a man who was actually thinking about what sound Alastor would make if Nevio cut his tongue off.

“So, you see, Nevio, the coastal redevelopment project is—”

“Is a sinking ship, Alastor,” Nevio interrupted, his voice smooth and melodic. He tilted his head, his azure eyes bright and vacant. “But I love the ambition. Truly. It’s adorable.”

Alastor blinked. “Adorable?"

“Like a toddler building a sandcastle before the tide comes in,” Nevio patted the man’s shoulder, his grip just a little too tight, his fingers digging into the muscle. “Keep talking. I’m fascinated. Really.”

But he wasn’t. Because across the ballroom, near the velvet curtains leading to the terrace, he saw her.

{{user}}.

“On second thought, stop talking. Your voice is irritating me.” And with that Nevio moved toward the terrace.

The terrace was quiet, the sounds of the orchestra muffled by the glass doors. The fog was thick tonight, swirling around the stone balustrades. He found her standing by the edge.

“I’d be careful, amore,” Nevio said, his voice light and conversational. “The cliffs around here are notoriously unforgiving.”

He stayed where he was, leaning casually against a stone pillar, his hands in his pockets. He let his smile reach his eyes—the boyish, charming version. The one that made people forget he was a psychopath.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to snoop,” he said. “But it’s hard to miss a beauty like yourself slipping out of the room. Kinda made the glow of the ballroom dim the second you left.”

He then walked closer.

“I’m Nevio Calvetti.” he said, extending a hand. “But you probably already knew that.”

Seeing the hesitation in her body language, Nevio dropped his hand. He laughed, a warm, easy sound. “I see you got the memo, too.”

“The memo,” he repeated. “What did your father tell you? Stay away from the Calvettis? Because I got the exact same stay away from the Greysons speech growing up.” He rolled his eyes playfully. "It’s kind of lame, don’t you think? Why should we care about some dusty old beef between our parents? Especially when neither of us even knows what the beef is about. This ain’t Romeo and Juliet.”

He stopped talking for a second. Then, “Dance with me,” he said. “A little dance never harmed anyone, right? Unless you’re afraid?”

He held out his hand. He knew she’d take it this time because she was a Greyson, and Greysons didn’t back down from a dare.

When her fingers touched his, a jolt of pure electricity slammed through him. He led her back toward the ballroom, toward the music, but he kept them on the edge of the floor, in the shadows where the light was soft.

He pulled her close. Too close. His hand went to the small of her back, His other hand holding hers tight. They started to move in a slow, swaying rhythm.

As he spun her out and pulled her back into his chest, he saw the mark on the base of her neck.

The mark he left on her that night.

“Oh?” He murmured, stopping their sway and lifting a finger to lightly trace the edge of the bite. “What’s that?”

“From a dedicated admirer, you say.” His voice dropped, all the playfulness gone from it completely. He leaned in, close enough that only she could hear him. “I’d be careful, {{user}}. Dedicated men don’t like to share.”

He tightened his grip on her waist.

“If I were him...” he whispered, his eyes dropping to her mouth before snapping back to hers, “I’d kill anyone else who even looked at you.”

The thing about being a high-functioning psychopath is that you have to be a really, really good actor. You have to learn the script. You have to know when to tilt your head, when to crinkle your eyes, and exactly how much teeth to show so you look like a dog instead of a wolf.

And for the last few weeks? Nevio had been giving an Oscar-worthy performance.

He had been “bumping into” {{user}} everywhere. The coffee shop near her campus at 8:15 AM. The library annex on Tuesday nights. The park where she liked to sit and pretend she was just a normal girl. He had orchestrated every single “accident” with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker. A smile here. A witty comment there. A “Oh, hey, you again! What are the odds?” that made his skin crawl with the sheer, delicious irony of it all.

They were chill now. Chill. That was the word. She seemed more relaxed around him. He was the guy who drove her home after her car broke down. He was the guy who bought her morning lattes. He was the guy who promised he could make a mean mushroom risotto.

And he can. He’s a Calvetti. They do three things perfectly: hospitality, organized crime, and obsession.

Nevio was currently standing in his kitchen trying to cook the mushroom risotto he promised {{user}}. He was wearing a black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the intricate ink sprawling across his forearms, and a pair of dark trousers that cost more than most people’s college tuition. No apron.

He looked good. He looked like every woman’s favorite domestic fantasy: a handsome billionaire playing chef on a Thursday night. He looked like the kind of man you want to take home to your father.

Except her father would probably shoot him on sight.

Which, honestly? Fair enough.

His knife moved through herbs with the same unbothered precision he brought to everything else in his life—negotiations, seduction, murder. Cooking wasn’t so different, really. Timing. Patience. Knowing exactly when to apply pressure and when to let something sit. He had learned that from his mother, actually, who had once told him a man who could cook and a man who could kill were both, at their core, men who understood care. Then she laughed at her own joke for a solid five minutes while his father looked at her like he was falling in love all over again.

The doorbell rang. 7:30 PM sharp.

He wiped his hands on a towel, checked his reflection in the dark window glass, mostly out of habit, and went to the door.

He opened it, and there she was.

{{user}}.

His little fawn.

“Punctual, I see,” he said, leaning against the doorframe, flashing her the grin. “Come in, amore.”

He stepped back, ushering her into the penthouse.

“Rough day?” He asked, reaching out to take her bag. His fingers brushed hers, and for a second, he had to remind himself not to just grab her and drag her to the floor.

Patience, Nevio. Marathon, not a sprint.

“Why don’t you go freshen up? Master bathroom is through the bedroom, second door on the left. I’ll have the wine poured by the time you’re back.”

He watched her walk away for a moment before walking back to the kitchen, whistling Ring Around the Rosie under his breath. He stirred the rice and poured two glasses of wine.

Five minutes passed.

Seven minutes.

Ten minutes.

The risotto was perfect. The rice was al dente, the sauce creamy and rich. But {{user}} wasn’t back.

Fifteen minutes.

Nevio plated the risotto. The steam rose up, smelling of mushrooms and wine.

Twenty minutes.

Now, {{user}} was a beautiful girl, but she didn’t need twenty minutes to wash her hands.

He leaned his hips against the marble counter, picking up his wine glass. He took a sip, a slow, genuinely delighted smile stretched across his face.

He gave her another five minutes.

Then put his glass down and went to find her.

The bathroom was empty, towels untouched. Down the hall, his study door was open, which it hadn’t been.

Nevio stopped in the doorway.

She had his mask.

Not only that, on the carpet, fallen from wherever they’d been tucked, a small stack of photographs. They were beautiful shots. Her sleeping. Her walking to class. Her laughing with a friend. Her through her apartment window.

He should have felt something like panic, probably. Most men would have.

Nevio leaned against the doorframe instead, arms crossed, watching her. “Clever girl,” he said softly.

So, she hadn’t accepted his invitation because she was falling for the charming man. She accepted it because she fucking suspected, and she was using the dinner as a Trojan horse to get inside his house and investigate.

He should’ve been angry. Furious, even, at being played.

He was fucking delighted.

“You used me,” he said, pushing off the doorframe, unhurried, closing the distance between them slow enough to watch her decide whether to run. “Accepted a nice boy’s dinner invitation just to go through his things.” He tilted his head, something warm and terrible in his eyes. “Fuck, I think I’m in love.”

“Now,” Nevio said, his voice dropping low, “the only question left, little fawn—do you like the way I see you?”

Nevio was sitting in L’Oiseau, an upscale French place where the waiters moved like they had sticks up their asses and the wine cost more than a kidney. He was supposed to be talking business with some venture capitalist. He was talking about “synergy” and “market penetration,” and Nevio was nodding along, flashing his charming smile.

​He didn’t hear a single fucking word the man said.

​His entire focus was locked on a table forty feet away. On her. And on the dead man walking sitting across from her.

{{user}} had been ghosting him for a week. Ever since she snooped through his penthouse, found his mask, and realized the man cooking her dinner and the phantom terrorizing her in the dark were the same man, she had stormed out.

​Which was fine, honestly. Every relationship has problems. The fact that she was angry enough to freeze him out just made it feel like they were a real couple.

Besides, if she truly hated him, if she actually wanted him gone, all she had to do was whisper his name to her father. Mors Greyson would have made sure the streets of St. Kingsfall was red with Nevio’s blood.

​He was still breathing. Ergo, she was keeping him.

​So it was fine.

What wasn’t fine was her putting on a backless dress and going on a highly public date with some trust-fund imbecile who looked like he’d been grown in a lab for “Generic Ivy League Fuckwit”. What wasn’t fine was that imbecile reaching across the table and putting his hand—a hand that absolutely would not exist by tomorrow morning—on her bare skin.

​Nevio’s jaw locked so hard his teeth ached. His vision tunneled, the ambient noise of the restaurant fading out entirely. He stared at the man’s hand on her back with a look of such raw, unhinged murder that a waiter walking past actually stumbled out of his eyeline.

​The only good thing about this entire evening was that the date was suddenly cut short.

---

Some hours later, ​he was standing on the stone terrace outside {{user}}’s bedroom window at the Greyson estate. Mors was out of town, but the perimeter was crawling with his private security. Nevio had slipped past them effortlessly.

He had his mask on. He didn’t need it anymore as she knew who he was. But Nevio Calvetti was nothing if not extra. He loved the theater. Loved the mask as a symbol. It meant the charming guy was dead for the night, and the monster was off the leash.

He reached for the window, fully expecting to pick the lock.

​It slid open effortlessly. Unlatched.

He felt a dark, wicked thrill shoot through his chest. Was it an accident? Or was it a dare? Was she provoking him deliberately, putting on that little show at the restaurant and then leaving the door open?

He stepped into the room.

He found her awake, wearing a nightgown that was barely there. It showed everything. The peaks of her nipples, the curve of her waist, the soft expanse of her thighs.

Nevio felt a sudden, violent throb in his cock.

He walked toward her, the mask hiding his expression, but his posture screaming everything he was feeling.

“First you provoke me,” he rasped. “You put on your little show at the restaurant. You let that... thing... touch you. And then you leave the door open for me. You aren’t the good little girl everyone thinks you are, are you, {{user}}?”

He crossed the room in two massive strides. He didn’t give her a chance to move. He grabbed her by the hips, his fingers digging into the silk and the soft skin beneath it. He dragged her back across the mattress until her back hit the headboard.

He was on top of her in an instant, his weight pinning her down, his breath hot against the mask. He reached over to her vanity, grabbing a handful of silk ribbons.

“Put your hands up, {{user}},” he growled.

When she did, a dark, utterly feral sound rumbled in his chest.

He used the ribbons, winding them tight around her wrists, anchoring her to the headboard. He made sure they were secure. He made sure she couldn’t move an inch.

Then, he reached up and pulled off the mask.

He let her see his face. He let her see exactly how furious and obsessed he was.

“What the fuck did I say about letting other men touch you?” he sneered, leaning his weight over her. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his knife.

He pressed the tip of the blade into the silk at the hollow of her throat.

“I told you,” he whispered, the words sharp as the steel. “I will kill anyone else who even thought about touching you. I’d take their eyes so they couldn’t see you, and their hands so they couldn’t reach for you. That imbecile at the restaurant? He’s a walking ghost. He just doesn’t know he’s dead yet. But you?"

He slid the knife down, the blade parting the silk like it was water. He didn’t stop until the nightgown was in ruins, a heap of useless fabric.

“You have been a very very bad girl, little fawn. And you know what happens to a bad girl?”

He leaned down, his lips grazing her collarbone, his teeth scraping against her skin.

“They get fucked.”

Nevio dropped the knife on the nightstand and moved his hand lower. He ran his fingers up and down the length of her pussy lips, teasing the sensitive skin, feeling the wetness that started to coat her.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice thick with a dark, appreciative heat. “So wet for the man who breaks into your room. So ready for me. Does your daddy know his princess is a little whore for the enemy?”

He pushed one finger inside her. Slow. Deep.

Then he pushed a second finger in, stretching her, his thumb finding the little bud of her clit and grinding against it. He was fingering her with a violent, obsessive focus, his other hand gripping her throat—not to choke, just to hold, just to make sure she was looking at him while he ruined her.

“You’re mine,” he hissed, moving his fingers faster. “Every inch of you. Every drop of this wetness. It belongs to me.”

He was just starting to find his rhythm, just starting to see her eyes roll back, when there was a sudden, sharp knock at the door.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Miss Greyson?” a gruff man’s voice called from the hallway. “Are you alright in there? The perimeter sensors tripped near the east wing. Just checking in.”

​Nevio didn't stop. If anything, his fingers moved faster. His thumb pressed harder.

He leaned down, his lips brushing against hers, his eyes burning with a manic light.

“Tell him to go away,” he whispered. “And then, don’t make another sound.”

He let out a soft, dark laugh.

“If you moan, he hears. If he hears, he dies for the sin of hearing the sweet sounds you make for me.”

Except, he didn’t give her the chance to be polite.

The moment her lips parted, he pulled his fingers out of her and replaced them with his mouth.

He dove between her legs, his tongue swiping across her clit in one long, hot, greedy stroke.

He looked up at her from between her thighs, his face smeared with her wetness, his azure eyes fixed on her face as he grinned like a devil.

“Go ahead, amor,” he murmured against her pussy, his voice a muffled, wicked vibration. “Tell him you’re fine.”

Winning is a habit. Some people say it’s about luck, but they’re usually the ones bleeding in a gutter somewhere. Winning is about knowing the board better than the other guy, and being willing to kick the table over if the pieces aren’t moving the way you want.

And right now? Nevio was winning.

The high from that night in {{user}}’s bedroom was still humming in his veins. It was better than any drug, better than any payout from a Red Room bet. The way she’d tasted, the way she’d moaned, the way she’d looked at him when he told her he’d kill anyone who touched her—it made him feel like he’s on top of the world.

So, he followed through. He’s a man of his word.

He had tracked that trust fund imbecile from the restaurant—the one who thought he could put his hands on his little fawn. Nevio didn’t kill him. No. Death is too quick. Death is a mercy. Instead, he met him behind his house. He used a hammer and shattered every bone in his hands. Then, Nevio left him screaming on the marble steps of his own front door, a bloody reminder that some things in St. Kingsfall aren’t just off-limits—they’re sacred. And you don't touch them.

Then, he went for the docks.

He started buying up real estate in Mors Greyson’s territory. No, it wasn’t about the investment. It was about the flex. It was about letting the big bad wolf know that Nevio was pissing on his trees.

He was in a relationship now. Sort of.

It was their little secret—mostly because {{user}} was afraid her father would kill Nevio if he found out. It made the whole thing ten times more erotic to Nevio. The secret texts, the hidden smiles, the way he’d break into her room just to leave her flowers.

Now, Nevio was sitting in the back of his car, watching the St. Kingsfall coastline blur past. His phone was on his hand, the message thread with {{user}} open. It was her birthday today.

He had gone overboard. Obviously. He sent enough flowers to her mansion to turn the place into a funeral for her innocence. He had also bought that three-hundred-thousand-dollar painting she’d been staring at in the gallery.

And because he’s a romantic, he had broken into her bedroom exactly at midnight just to pull her against his chest, bite her shoulder, and be the very first person to whisper happy birthday against her neck.

Hell, he had even promised her that he wouldn’t stalk her today. He would let her have her little party and he wouldn’t hover.

I’m kinda hurt you didn't invite me to your party, little fawn. Nevio typed, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. I bought a new suit and everything.

He hit send and watched the three little typing dots appear, disappear, and appear again.

​He didn’t wait for her. He sent another text.

You better make it up to me tonight for all the hurt you’re causing my poor, sensitive heart. I’m going to need a very thorough apology.

He locked his phone then, sliding it into the pocket of his suit jacket as the car pulled into the underground garage of his building.

He took the private elevator straight to the penthouse. He was planning on a shower, a glass of whiskey, and then... well, he had plans.

But when the doors slid open, he realized the house was already full.

Sitting on his sofa, looking like they’d just stepped off the set of a movie about beautiful, wealthy murderers, were his parents.

Enzo and Daphne Calvetti.

His mom was nursing a glass of red wine, her blonde hair perfectly coiffed, her eyes—the exact same shade of blue as Nevio’s—scanning him the second he walked in. His dad was standing by the window, hands in his pockets, looking out at the city he’d spent years ruling.

“How did you two get in?” Nevio said, to the room in general. “Actually, don’t tell me. I’m sure it involved a bribe and mom threatening someone’s lineage.”

“Nevio,” his mom said, setting her glass down. She stood up and pulled him into a hug. She smelled like the same perfume she’d worn his entire childhood, warm and floral. Nevio hugged her back, tight. He adored her. She was the only person who could out-crazy him on a good day.

“Well.” He crossed to the bar then, poured himself a glass of whiskey. “To what do I owe the ambush?”

“You missed family dinner, brat,” his dad said, turning around.

Enzo Calvetti was fifty-five, but he looked like he could still bench-press a mid-sized sedan and then use it to run over his enemies. He was still THE man.

“I was preoccupied,” Nevio said.

“With work,” his dad said, “or with someone?”

Nevio turned around, flashing them a brilliant, completely unrepentant smile. Oh. They knew.

“Ah,” he said. “So this is that kind of ambush.”

His dad walked over, his expression shifting from ‘calm father’ to ‘Archon of Eden' in a heartbeat. The air in the room suddenly got colder. He stood in front of Nevio, staring him down with that gaze that had made grown men piss themselves.

“I told you to follow one single rule, Nevio. One rule,” he said. “Stay away from the Greysons. And what do you do? You go around dismantling a two-decade-old truce. You stalk Mors Greyson’s daughter. You buy up his docks under shell corporations, and you shatter the hands of a senator’s son.”

“Damn, old man," Nevio chuckled, genuinely impressed. “You still got it. I thought you were too busy worshipping Mom to keep track of my hobbies.”

“That’s not a denial.”

“I wasn’t planning on denying anything.” Nevio shrugged. “I want her. I’m keeping her. I don’t really see what part of that requires further discussion.”

Something moved behind his dad’s eyes—not surprise. Recognition. The specific, weary recognition of a man realizing his son had inherited every single thing about him except the part that knew when to be afraid.

“You arrogant little shit,” Enzo said. “Do you think Mors Greyson stays out of Eden’s business out of respect? There’s a reason that man declined Eden’s invitation and lived to keep declining it for twenty years, Nevio.”

“A reason you never told me.”

“Because you never needed to know it.”

“Well, I don’t give a fuck about whatever the reason is.” Nevio’s voice stayed light, conversational. “{{user}} is mine. And unless I’m six feet underground, I’m not leaving her alone.”

Enzo opened his mouth—closed it. Looked, for one unguarded second, genuinely tired.

“I’ll tell him.” Daphne said softly.

“Daphne—”

“He deserves to hear it properly. From me.” She turned to her son. “There’s something you need to know, honey. Sit down.”

Nevio sat. His mom sat next to him.

“I met your dad in college,” she said. “I was nineteen. I was in love. But your grandfather was an old-world man. He didn’t really care about love. He cared more about ports and loyalty. So he arranged for me to marry Felix Greyson. Mors’s father.”

“I didn’t want him.” She continued. “I wanted your father. So I packed my bags and tried to run away with Enzo. Except we got caught and Felix shot Enzo right infront of me.”

Nevio’s eyes went, unbidden, to his dad. He knew his dad had some bullet scars, but he had grown up assuming they were from some old business dispute.

“For sometime, I believed that I had lost Enzo.” His mom said. “I was angry and I still refused to marry Felix. Then your grandfather let me know that Enzo survived. Barely. And he made it very clear that if I don’t marry Felix, he will personally make sure that Enzo is dead. So I said yes.” Her jaw tightened. “But I was kidnapped on my way to the wedding and—”

“And Felix was murdered.” Enzo concluded. “I killed him. Right after I had my men pick Daphne up. I was the one who made Mors an orphan.”

Nevio stared at them.

“You see,” Enzo continued. “Mors declined Eden’s invitation to turn himself into something big enough to erase us off this coast. He’s been waiting for a reason. You put your hands on his daughter, you are the reason. You light the match.”

He sat back, rubbing his temples like a man who could already see the blood on the horizon.

“I’m supposed to be enjoying my time with my wife, Nevio. That’s why I left Eden. Now don’t drag me into this bullshit again. Stay. The fuck. Away.”

Nevio sat with it. Turned it over. The weight of the history was heavy, sure. The blood, the betrayal, the kidnapping. He waited for the horror to arrive.

It didn’t.

“Let me get this straight.” Nevio said. “You started a war and murdered a man just to get Mom. You literally took her from her wedding day.”

He let out a short, sharp laugh.

“And now you’re mad because I’m doing the same thing? Dad, I’m starting a war to keep {{user}}. I don’t see the problem here. Sounds like family tradition to me. It’s in the blood.”

His dad stared at him. He looked like he wanted to hit him, and then he looked like he wanted to laugh, and then he just looked exhausted. He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as he let out a long, exhausted sigh. “This boy cannot be for real.”

His mom, however, started laughing.

“He is your son, Enzo,” Daphne said, leaning back and looking at her husband. “What did you expect?”

She then turned her gaze back to Nevio, her eyes sharp.

“Do you love her, Nevio? The Greyson girl?”

Nevio thought about it. He thought about the way she looked when she was sleeping. He thought about the way she tasted when she was angry. He thought about how he would rather burn the city to the ground than see her smile at someone else.

“If loving someone means wanting to crawl inside their skin and stay there until the world ends,” he said, his voice dead serious. “If it means I want to skin anyone who looks at her, means I don’t sleep right in a bed she’s not in anymore—then yeah, Ma. I’m head over heels.”

His mother nodded, like he had passed some test she had never told him he was taking.

“I can’t wait until you bring my daughter-in-law home.” She said.

They left not long after—Daphne kissing his cheek, Enzo pausing at the door to fix Nevio with one last look.

“I better not see you dead, son,” his dad said, though there was a flicker of reluctant pride in his eyes. “Because if I have to come out of retirement to avenge you, I’m going to be very, very annoyed.”

“I have no intention of dying, Dad,” Nevio grinned.

The elevator doors closed, and he was alone in the silence of the penthouse.

He looked at his watch. 9:45 PM. The party would be in full swing. The Greyson estate would be crawling with the elite, with security, with Mors himself.

He wondered how his little fawn would take the news? How would she feel knowing that the man she was falling for was the son of the man who murdered her grandfather?

Well. Only one way to find out.

---

The Greyson Mansion was lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree.

Security was tight—tighter than Nevio had ever seen it. There were men with earpieces and hidden guns every ten feet. The estate was packed with the absolute upper echelon of St. Kingsfall elite. Mors had pulled out all the stops for his daughter’s birthday. The driveway was lined with Ferraris.

Nevio didn’t sneak in this time.

He walked right up to the front fucking doors.

He was wearing a suit that cost more than most people’s cars, his blonde hair swept back, his eyes bright with a manic joy.

The guards at the door reached for their weapons, but Nevio just held up his hands, laughing.

“Relax, boys. I’m the guest of honor. Even if I wasn’t invited.”

He shoved past them, the sheer audacity of his presence freezing them in place for just a second too long. He walked into the ballroom, the scent of expensive perfume and champagne hitting him.

​The room was stunningly decorated, but Nevio only saw her. {{user}} was standing near the center of the room, wearing a dress that hugged every curve he had mapped with his hands and tongue the night before.

He started walking toward her. He almost reached her too but then Mors Greyson stepped in front of him, blocking his view of {{user}}. Annoying.

“Nevio Calvetti,” Mors said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “You have exactly five seconds to explain why you’re in my house before I have you buried in the garden.”

“Hello to you too, Mr. Greyson,” Nevio said conversationally. “Lovely party.”

Before Mors could draw the weapon Nevio knew he kept in his waistband, he tilted his head and shifted gaze to {{user}}. He looked her up and down, drinking in the panic and the beauty of her.

“Sorry, amor,” he said, meeting her eyes. “I know we said we’d keep this our little secret for a while, but I’m not really a fan of secret relationships. It feels a bit... dishonest, don’t you think?”