Page 43

PRINCESS

Warning this is an unedited chapter of Veil of Power 3, and is subject to change

M y fingers move over the keyboard rapidly as I try to figure out why the code keeps breaking when a knock echoes in my room. Letting out a frustrated sigh, I run my hand through my hair before saying, “Come in.”

Looking back at the white door, my brother, Kaito, pops his head in and gives me a smile that doesn’t quite reach his dark eyes. “What are you doing?” He asks me.

I shrug and lean back into my chair, “Just trying to figure out why my code keeps breaking.”

He grimaces and says, “Not something I can help with, I’m afraid.”

Rolling my eyes, “I didn’t expect you to. You're more of a muscle head than anything else.”

He lifts a singular brow before shaking his head and says, “Don’t be disrespectful. Mother wants you to come down; dinner’s about to be served.”

My gaze drifts back to the monitor with the flashing square ‘Error, the code you have entered will not run’ . “In a second, you go, I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Right, just don’t be late. You know how mother can get.” He tells me before shutting my room’s door.

“I know,” I whisper to myself, my thumb running over the fading bruise on my wrist. Existing the coding program, I let the mouse cursor hover over the recent videos that I saved from my stalking session, debating if it would be worth a beating. Mother has abusive tendencies.

Shaking my head, I shut down my computer and let my hair down from the tight bun. I look over what I’m wearing to make sure it’s not something that will cause my mother to lash out. I’m in a pair of black jeans and a long-sleeve red top, she was fine with it last night, but that doesn’t mean jack shit because if she doesn’t like it today, then I’m fucked.

Making my way out my bedroom, I try to jump a couple of steps just so I’m not late. I make it to my seat just as the grandfather clock begins to chime. As the final note echoes, I hear the click of Mother’s heels, her voice drifting in, followed closely by my father’s.

“I told you, Giorgio, that we shouldn’t let your brother control our business.” She stops at the entrance of the dining room, her heels tapping on the hard marble floors as her eyes scan the table before they stop on me, and a scowl settles on her face.

“Hannah, dear, I told you it’s not that simple. Stefano holds a majority in both the company and the assets that we’re using for our benefit.” Dad tries to tell her, but she doesn’t pay any attention to him or his words.

“Princess.” Her voice cuts through the air like a whip and I hold my breath. What did I do now?

“Yes, mother?” I ask, standing but making sure that I don’t meet her sharp gaze.

“Why does your hair look like a rat’s nest? I did tell you to take care of it before coming down for dinner every night, did I not?”

Swallowing down my nerves I answer, “You did but —”

A sharp, stinging sensation cuts me off. I resist the urge to reach my hand out to try and soothe my cheek. “Your apologies don’t work, Princess. Not when you keep repeating the same damn ungrateful attitude. Go to your room.”

My stomach clenches. The words aren’t new, but they still cutsharp, like a razor dragging over old wounds. I stare at the marble floor, at the faint smudge of my shoe against its pristine surface, and wonder if she’d notice if I screamed.

Probably not.

Swallowing down the lump in my throat, I push my chair back. “Excuse me,” I whisper. My voice is small, like it always is around her.

I take the spiral stairs, holding back my sobs, I won’t let her have the satisfaction of seeing me break down. Closing my door, I lean against it, pressing my forehead against the cold wood. I breathe. In. Out. In. Out. My cheek still burns. My mother’s voice still echoes.

But here—in this room—she doesn’t exist.

I count to ten, listening for footsteps. Nothing.

Only then do I move. My fingers twist the wall-mounted lamp, and with a quiet click, the hidden panel shifts open. A breath of cool, stale air rushes out. My pulse steadies.

The room hums with a quiet, steady energy, almost like it’s alive. Four years of watching him, and I’ve pieced together my little shrine. Monitors everywhere, each one blinking with his world in gray, grainy footage. The screens show fragments of his life—the places he haunts, the people who orbit him like moths to a dangerous flame. He doesn’t know it, but he’s under my watch, every move of his captured and catalogued.

Across the room, my wall sprawls like a spider’s web. Strings connect faces to places, pinned down with photos, notes, and the occasional napkin stained with something darker than ink. The New York Camorra—his world, his family’s empire. I know its veins, its paths, where they meet, where they splinter. I’ve traced every line over and over with my fingers. He’ll never see the lines as I do; he only walks them.

Under dim, buzzing lights, the shadows make everything look old, forgotten, and secret. I can smell the faint scent of old paper and ink, the tang of metal from tacks and clips. Each piece of paper, each photo, is like a piece of him I’ve claimed, a fragment I’ve stolen without him even knowing. To him, I’m invisible. To me, he’s everywhere. I take a seat behind the screen, and within seconds, I’m looking into his bedroom. There’s something that makes it feel so…intimate. I can see him, but he can’t see me, and that stirs something in me I can’t even begin to understand.

He’s sprawled on his bed, sheets hanging low on his hips, bare skin. His lean muscles are all covered in ink, all mine to watch. He has no idea. No clue that my gaze traces every inch of him, that my breath catches when he shifts, muscles flexing beneath tanned skin.

He’s right there. So close. So oblivious. I zoom in on his face; he’s not asleep, but he’s just lying there. He usually leaves for the gym in an hour or two, will stay there for a couple of hours before returning to his apartment, which is just enough time for me to sneak in and leave him some souvenirs.

I just hope that no one will come looking for me while I’m gone. I usually turn the shower on and lock the door before sneaking out from the window in the bathroom. Instead of just sitting here and watching him, I go back into my actual room, closing the entrance to my secret place. Leaning back on the wall, I let out a loud and long sigh. I rub my hand over my face, I won’t cry, I. Will. Not. Cry. Feeling like shit doesn’t resolve anything and I refuse to sit here and cry about the…problems that are between me and my mother because it hasn’t ever gotten me anywhere and it won’t get me anywhere.

To be continued….