Page 3 of Sinful Lord

It was my most ambitious piece to date. A gift to my brother on the day of his coronation. My first step into the abstract. A point of pride.

But on the day I was supposed to give the masterpiece away, it was stolen, right along with my freedom.

I didn’t see who took it, but I’ve heard who committed the crime. My family’s most dangerous rival. A brutal Polish mobster named Tytus Ryzdon.

“Not just any painting,” Tytus says as his singular silver-blue eye studies the painting. “A masterpiece. The colors, the contours, the commitment. It’s cutting edge. Bold. Brilliant…” That silver-blue eye turns back onto me. “Beautiful.”

My toes dig into the floor as a dreadful heat rushes through my rigid body.

“You’re the one who stole it,” I remind him, my words wavering against the danger I know I’m in.

“How could I not? Just look it at. Irresistible.”

“It wasn’t meant for you.”

“Does that matter?” he smirks. “Art is for whoever sees it, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I would not.”

“Spoken like a true spoiled princess.”

The heat swirling around in me suddenly turns angry, and the ice encasing my limbs shatters.

“Watch it,” I weakly warn, fingers curling into an even weaker fist.

“Or what?”

I scramble to find a suitable threat.

“… Or I’ll scream.”

But we both know I can’t. I’m too scared to scream. It’s a miracle I’m even able to talk.

I’ve heard stories about this man. Horrible stories.

The only time I’ve seen him before seemed to confirm every last one. He was covered in the blood of the men who were tasked with protecting me. If my uncle Maksim hadn’t shown up on time, Tytus might have dragged me back to hell with him.

Maybe he’s returned to finish the job.

“No, you won’t scream,” Tytus says, shaking his head. “If you could, I’m sure I would have already heard it.”

With an unbefitting grace, he gently places the giant canvas against the wall, then steps forward.

“What’s the matter, princess? Throat too dry?”

“I’m not scared of you,” I lie.

“Well, you should be.” Another step forward is followed by a brief pause. “Your family sure is.”

He’s not wrong. After the chaos at the coronation, I saw something I never thought I’d see in my brother’s eyes. Fear.

But he quickly swallowed that fear, because that’s what people like him do. It’s what I should be able to do.

So, why can’t I swallow?

“My family isn’t scared of anyone,” I croak, even if I know that’s not entirely true. If there’s one thing my family is scared of, it’s losing the people we love. It’s why I’ve been locked away: for my own protection.

To my surprise, a gnash of anger takes a small bite out of my fear.