Hell has a way of making even silence feel like a threat. The halls of the Infernal Palace twist like the innards of a great beast, all heat and darkness, pulsing with an ancient rhythm that seeps into your bones. Every surface gleams; obsidian polished to a mirror’s edge, iron veined with molten gold, and stone etched with infernal runes that shimmer faintly as you pass. Even the air hums, like it’s alive, watching.

Katerina Morozova, Rina, moves ahead of me, a silhouette carved in shadows and silver thread. She glides rather than walks, her heels silent against the smooth floor, her long dress shifting like smoke around her legs. She doesn’t look back. Doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t need to. Every inch of her posture speaks for her: confidence, control, command.

Yet…There’s something else beneath the sharp edges. Something quieter. I feel it in the way her hand brushed my arm earlier, barely a touch, but charged. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe it’s this place. Hell magnifies everything. Hunger. Doubt. Longing. It’s a pressure cooker for the soul, and I’ve been in it long enough to know when something, or someone, is testing my seams.

Still, she tugs at something in me. Not lust, though that’s the easy conclusion. This is deeper. Stranger. Like déjà vu wrapped in silk and blood. The way she walks, the cadence of her breath, even the faint perfume she wears; amber and black rose, feels too familiar. Like I should know her name before she ever gave it. Like I already did, once. That’s impossible. I’ve never met her before the ball. I would’ve remembered. Wouldn’t I?

We reach the antechamber, high-vaulted and cold, despite the ever-present heat of the palace. Twin obsidian doors rise before us like tombstones, carved with Lucifer’s sigil: a serpent devouring its own tail, wrapped in flame. It pulses faintly, as if it has a heartbeat of its own. I’ve stood in front of these doors before. I’ve bargained, threatened, and bled in rooms like the one behind them. But this moment feels heavier. Like the doors aren’t just opening to a meeting, but to something I won’t be able to walk away from unchanged.

Rina stops just shy of them. I nearly walk past her, caught in the spiral of thought, but she turns and I halt. Her eyes, those cold-cut sapphires, fix on me, and the space between us suddenly feels too full. Too charged. Her shoulders rise with a breath she doesn’t quite let out, and her expression shifts, somewhere between hesitant and resolved.

“We’re early,” she says softly. Her voice cuts through the quiet like velvet drawn across steel.

I raise a brow. “Hell runs on time now?”

Her lips quirk, but only for a second. Then she exhales again and something in her gaze softens. “Before we go in… I owe you something.”

I lean against the stone wall, arms folded. “You do?”

Her hands clasp in front of her, a rare break in composure. She’s always poised, always sharp-edged—like a knife that knows exactly how close it is to your throat. But now there’s a hairline crack in the steel.

“An apology,” she says, eyes flicking away from mine for the first time since we met. “For the deception. I wasn’t… entirely honest back at the ballroom.”

I huff a low, humorless laugh. “No one in Hell is.”

“This is different.”

Damn me, it is. I feel it. The weight of her words. The tension wrapping tight around the moment. She’s not trying to manipulate me, at least not entirely. She’s bracing herself. Preparing for something bigger. I straighten slightly, instinct prickling. Not a threat… but something close. The kind of vulnerability people in our world only show before they draw blood.

“This meeting, what you’re about to hear,” she continues, her voice lower now, nearly a whisper, “it’s not just politics. It’s personal. For me. For my family. For… you, if you aren’t who we think you are anyway.”

The words are a blade dressed in silk. I feel the edge of them, cool against my skin. My eyes narrow. “What exactly are you trying to tell me, Rina?”

“I’m not trying,” she replies, stepping closer. Her gaze pins mine. “I’m about to.”

For the first time since this all began, I feel something shift in my chest. Not fear. Not quite. Just the sense that I’m standing on the edge of something ancient and inevitable. That whatever waits behind those doors isn’t just a secret or a betrayal—but the start of a storm we’ll all be pulled into. Whether we want to be or not. She’s not just the one guiding me into it. She’s part of the reason it’s coming.

Before I can press her, the doors behind her groan open; slow, deliberate, and ominous as a funeral hymn. Lucifer steps out first, all midnight and fire, every inch of him carved from danger and charisma. That pleased, infuriating grin stretches across his face like he’s already won something. He always wears it like a weapon, polished and purposeful.

Behind him, two figures emerge; one male, one female. Both carry the same bone-deep grace I see in Rina, though theirs is sharpened by age and command. The man looks like he was sculpted for war: broad shoulders, a blood-dark coat tailored like armor, and the kind of presence that makes men flinch before he moves. The woman’s stride is silent, her dress flowing like ink spilled over marble, but it’s her eyes, glacial and unblinking, that pin me in place. Blades would be gentler. They don’t flank Lucifer. They flank her. They surround me like a royal court might surround a king, or a threat.

Lucifer gestures with a loose flick of his hand, all charm and no patience. “Shall we?”

The chamber he leads us into is less an office and more a sanctum. The walls pulse faintly with demonic wards, layered deep into the stone. Tall, spined chairs ring an obsidian table etched with the map of Hell itself—each territory a jagged scar. Smoke curls through the air like incense from no visible source. Magic hangs here. Old magic. And blood remembers it. I take the seat opposite Lucifer. Rina moves to his right, the other two taking positions beside her, sentries cloaked in elegance and menace.

I don’t sit back. I don’t relax. I’ve been in too many rooms like this before. Rooms where death was dressed in velvet, where blood oaths were passed across crystal glasses, where a single sentence could start a war. You don’t sit back in rooms like this. You wait, and you listen.

Lucifer rests his elbows on the table, fingers laced loosely. “May I introduce two of Rina’s older siblings—Rurik and Viktoriya Morozova.” Siblings. That explains the resemblance, and the shared edge of violence they carry like perfume.

He leans in slightly. “They’re here to support her, as is their right. This meeting concerns more than politics, Soren. More than titles or alliances. I trust you’ll listen.”

“I’m here,” I reply evenly. “You’ve got my attention. Use it wisely.”

Rina doesn’t look at me right away. When she speaks, her voice is low, but steady. “Six and a half years ago, our parents were assassinated. They were hosting a quiet dinner, meant to be private. Just family. They never made it to dessert.” 

Her tone sharpens. “They were slaughtered before the first glass was poured.”

Rurik’s voice enters then; rough, deep, like stone dragged over steel. “The attack was labeled ‘rogue activity.’ Political sabotage from a rival mortal faction, according to the reports. We were told to move on. We didn’t.”

“It wasn’t random,” Viktoriya says coolly. “It was a coordinated hit.” The weight in the room shifts. I feel it in my spine, in the way the air thickens between words. They aren’t here to speculate. They’re here with something sharp and real.

I narrow my eyes. “And you think my people were involved?”

Rina’s gaze finally meets mine. “Not your people.”

A pause. Then: “Your brother and his people.” The words land like a blade between ribs.

A long silence stretches before I laugh, dry and without humor. “My brother’s many things; vain, ambitious, reckless. But he wouldn’t—”

“Are you sure?” Viktoriya cuts in smoothly, her voice so calm it cuts deeper than any yell. “Because we’re not. And what we’ve found suggests you shouldn’t be.”

Lucifer raises his glass, filled with something that shimmers like molten garnet. “Let them speak, Soren. Listen. Then decide what matters to you.”

Rina stands and walks to the edge of the table. A flick of her wrist summons a glowing map above it, runes spinning around it like celestial rings. At first, it shows nothing but coordinates and bloodlines. Then…Red flashes pulse across it: attack sites, movement clusters, evidence trails. A second gesture, and transaction records appear, glowing scrolls of arcane documentation. Two names. Not my brother’s official title, but one of his old field aliases. A name I’d buried with his past crimes. The second, mine. My jaw tightens.

“The hit squad is known for their discretion,” Rina says. “Expensive. Silent. Always finish the job.”

Rurik picks up the thread. “Three mafia families hit. The Carmichaels will be first. Your brother bought buildings in the areas near each family. He had our parents killed so Lucifer couldn’t send out our father to have him killed before he could accomplish anything.” I shift, cold crawling beneath my skin.

“I didn’t sign anything,” I say tightly. “Someone used my name.”

“We know,” Rina says gently, surprisingly. “At first, we believed you were involved. That you’d ordered the hit and used one of your brother’s proxies to do it. But something didn’t add up. Your movements. Your people. The fact that you were halfway across the human realm when the attack happened.”

Viktoriya continues, “So we set a trap. We waited for the signature to be used again. It was. Same alias. But this time only your brother’s. You weren’t attached.”

Rina looks at me again, her eyes searching. “That’s when we knew. We had to get you alone. Had to be sure you weren’t a willing part of it.”

I lean back finally. Not relaxed, just calculating. My brother. My blood. I’d been aware of his private missions, the whispers of alliances shifting in the mortal realm. But I thought he was consolidating power for our House, not—

“What is he planning?” I ask quietly.

“He’s not targeting Lucifer,” Rurik answers. “He’s going after the families. One by one. Anyone with mortal holdings, infernal influence, or neutral standing. The Carmichaels will be first. Most likely by killing you and anyone loyal to you in a way that wouldn’t arouse suspicion. Three others are showing signs of instability though. He’s building up to something.”

“A purge,” Viktoriya says. “Burn it all. Rebuild in his own image.”

Lucifer chuckles, low and amused but with an edge of pride and warning. “I’ve seen ambition before. Your brother thinks he can carve out an empire by cleaning house. But Hell is older than his ego. And I won’t let him tear apart what I built.”

My thoughts race. Every time I looked away. Every excuse I made for him. Every command he gave without council approval. He wasn’t just posturing anymore. He is erasing legacies.

“I didn’t know,” I say after a moment, my voice raw and quiet. “But I believe you now.” Rina doesn’t move, but something in her eyes shifts. A layer peels back. Not trust, not yet, but maybe the willingness to see me not as an enemy.

“I’ll confirm it myself,” I say. “I’ll get you proof.”

“And when you do?” Lucifer asks. “What happens next?”

The room stills. Every gaze sharpens on me. “Then I’ll deal with him,” I answer. “Personally.”

Rurik nods once. “Good.” Viktoriya’s expression doesn’t change, but her shoulders ease a fraction.

Rina speaks softly. “We didn’t intentionally come for war, Soren. We came for the truth. But now that we have it…”

I look at her, steady. “Now we draw lines. And I decide where I stand.”

Lucifer raises his glass in mock toast. “To family,” he says wryly. “And the fires it always starts.”

I don’t drink. I don’t move. My decision has already been made. If my brother’s declared war on the families, then he’s declared war on me, and gods help him when I catch up.