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Carlo Rhivers and the majority of the First District are in attendance, along with some of the members of the Third District. Although I don’t know why they’re here—we rarely have anything to do with the Third District. But I suppose they have to show unity and respect for the rest of the District members when something major happens. Keeps the peace, I guess.
The Three Districts make up Newlands, to ensure the country runs smoothly and efficiently. Only these Districts are run by very important but very dangerous people.
People like Carlo Rhivers. People like my father.
Not everyone in Newlands is a part of the Three Districts. There are many people outside, living normal lives away from the life of crime and secrecy, but everyone knows about them. Whether you’re brought up in the Districts or outside of them, everyone knows that Carlo Rhivers is in charge and no one stands in his way.
The Three Districts aren’t run like your average town or city. The mafia deals with everything here.
They pay with secrets, blackmail without mercy, and kill for punishment.
And there’s nothing anyone can do about it.
Not me, not my father, and not the rest of Newlands.
Being shunned by the population of those outside of the Districts, we’re basically our own separate country. The same coin, but two different ways of living.
After a long hour of fake sympathy from people I don’t know nor care about, the funeral is over and the masses of people scatter as they head to the Harlow mansion for the wake.
I don’t want to go.
An army of that many powerful District families all under one roof is not my kind of fun.
I stand alone at my mother’s freshly filled grave. My black knee-length dress sways slightly with the wind, the long sleeves covering the healing skin on my arms. I flick back my long hair—as deep and rich as dark chocolate—so it falls down my back, curling at the ends, the baby hairs that fall over my face blowing into my eyes with the breeze. My usual tanned face is pale, the shadow of a ghost replacing my usual stoic expression.
My cheekbones hurt from false smiles at strangers and my eyes burn, the sting a fresh reminder not to let a tear fall in front of these people. I refuse to cry in front of Carlo Rhivers and his cronies again.
Especially with King and Dax Rhivers mere feet away.
King Rhivers, Carlo’s only child, and the heir to the First District, stands tall, much taller than Carlo himself. His dark hair, the same shade as mine, is short and ruffled as if he brushes his slender fingers through it often. The black fedora hat he never seems to be without sits casually under his muscled arm. He wears a black three-piece suit, his shirt undone a couple buttons from the top, tattoos peeking out on his chest, his tattooed hands hidden in his pockets.
I pry my gaze away from his body, straight into his dark green eyes that are staring right at me with such intensity, I feel a flicker of an ember start to ignite a fire inside my chest. My pulse picks up and my heart stutters as I look into his eyes and remember the boy he used to be. My palms go clammy and a thin sheen of sweat beads on my back as he continues to watch me.
His cousin Dax also trains his eyes in my direction when he notices King not paying any attention to what he was saying.
Some would say King and Dax are yin and yang.
King is dark, handsome, and dangerous, whereas Dax is his opposite with light blond hair that’s wavy on top, broad like King, but he carries it in a different way. Plus, he smiles more. Well, more than King anyway, but then King doesn’t smile at all, not anymore. Although related and always together, you’d never see the resemblance.
They don’t deserve an ounce of my time or attention. In all my twenty-three years of life, King Rhivers has only affected a fraction of it. A fraction that felt so right but proved to be so wrong and since then I’ve had no reason to interfere with either of them.
Not that my father lets me anywhere near the business side of things. Which is inconvenient considering business is all he does.
But while both King and Dax together are intimidating, they don’t scare me like they probably should. He lost my fear all those years ago. He lost any ounce of emotion from me.
I turn from them, bored of King’s glares, and head towards the house, my heart rate returning to its normal pace.
Taking the longest route back to the mansion, I make my way to the back entrance of the kitchen to avoid the front door and as many people as possible when hushed voices stop me in my tracks. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I step tentatively ahead, peering down the alley where the large outdoor bins are.
Sensing my presence, the whispers stop and Carlo Rhivers stares right at me, a malicious smile playing on his lips.
I try to look innocent, that I stumbled upon them by accident, which in fact, I did.
Carlo approaches me, the man he was involved in the whispered conversation with one step behind him.
“Theodora, what are you doing out here?” Carlo asks as if it’s absurd to be seen around the grounds of my own house.
I glare at him.
