I slipped through the city like I always did—silent, unseen. My hoodie was pulled low, the blood on my sleeve mostly wiped away, though the sting on my shoulder reminded me of how close that knife had come. By the time I reached the gates of the mansion, the sun was nowhere in sight, and the estate was cloaked in a velvet hush.
The guards never noticed me. They weren't trained to. I had spent years making sure no one could ever catch me if I didn't want them to. Scaling walls, slipping past cameras, timing the shift of patrols—it was all muscle memory.
When I finally pushed open the door to my wing and stepped into my room, a strange relief sank into my bones. Home. Or at least, the place that was supposed to be home. I exhaled slowly, tugging off the hoodie, ready to collapse into bed and process the mess of tonight.
But the moment I flicked the switch—
Light poured across the room, and he was there.
My father.
Sitting calmly in the chair by the window, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of dark whiskey balanced in his hand. His suit was still perfectly pressed, his posture regal, yet his eyes—those cold, sharp eyes—were locked on me with a weight that froze me in place.
"Where were you?" His voice was low, dangerous in its calm.
My pulse spiked. For a second, I considered lying. Then again, I had lived too long in shadows to think lies worked on men like him.
"Personal business," I said, my tone flat, unbothered. I dropped my bag on the floor, peeling off my mask and tossing it aside like it meant nothing. "Nothing you need to concern yourself with."
His gaze flicked to the sleeve of my shirt where the fabric was torn, a faint line of crimson peeking through. Before I could move, he was already standing, already beside me. His hand gripped my wrist—not harsh, not gentle—just firm, inescapable.
"What happened?" His eyes narrowed as he pushed the fabric back, revealing the thin but sharp cut running along my skin. The way his jaw tightened wasn't just anger—it was fear.
"It's nothing," I muttered, trying to tug my hand away. "A scratch. I've had worse."
"You shouldn't have any," he snapped, the calm in his voice cracking for the first time. "Not in my house. Not under my protection."
That word—protection—sat heavy in my chest. He hadn't been there all those years. He hadn't protected me when I needed him most. And yet, standing here now, he looked at me like he'd tear the world apart if it dared hurt me again.
I lifted my chin, meeting his cold gaze with my own sharp defiance. "I can take care of myself. Always have."
For a long moment, silence stretched between us. Only the faint ticking of the antique clock filled the room.
Finally, he released my wrist, but his eyes didn't leave mine."You remind me of her," he murmured, so low I almost didn't catch it.
My breath hitched. He rarely spoke of my mother. Rarely let her ghost linger in this house.
Before I could ask, he straightened, his expression shuttering again. "This will not happen again, Calista. If you have business—personal or otherwise—you come to me first. Do you understand?"
I forced a smirk, covering the storm inside me with the only armor I had—my sharp tongue. "Of course, Father. Next time I decide to sneak out for a midnight stroll, I'll make sure to file the paperwork with your secretary."
His lips twitched, the closest thing to amusement I'd ever seen on his face. But beneath it, his eyes burned with something else—a question he wasn't asking yet, a truth he wasn't ready to tell.
And I wasn't ready to hear.
So I turned away, heading for the bathroom, my voice carrying over my shoulder. "Don't wait up next time. I won't always be this considerate."
But even as the door clicked shut behind me, I knew—he wasn't going anywhere.
Not until he figured out exactly what kind of daughter had returned to his world.
I was halfway through stitching the cut on my arm when the knock came. Not a polite tap, but a single, commanding rap against the bathroom door.
"Calista."
His voice. Calm. Dangerous. Unmovable.
I didn't answer. My hand was steady, needle glinting under the light as I finished the stitch and snipped the thread clean. Pain meant nothing—it never had.
When I opened the door, he was still there, arms folded across his chest, watching me with those unreadable eyes.
"Sit," he ordered, nodding toward the armchair.
I raised an eyebrow. "What is this, an interrogation?"
"Something like that," he said, voice clipped.
I sighed, tossed the bloody rag into the bin, and dropped into the chair with deliberate laziness, stretching out like I owned the room. "Fine. What do you want to know?"
His eyes flicked to my cut again, then back to me. "You move like a ghost, Calista. You fight like you've been trained since birth. Guards didn't see you come in. Cameras didn't catch you. And yet you've spent your life in an orphanage." His jaw hardened. "So tell me. Who are you really?"
I let the silence hang, then smiled—sharp, dangerous. "You really want to know?"
"Yes."
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "I'm the Queen of the Underworld."
The words fell into the room like a blade. His eyes didn't widen, but the way his glass cracked in his hand told me enough. Whiskey dripped down his fingers, ignored.
"For years, I've built an empire beneath everyone's noses. Hacking. Deals. Smuggling. Laundering. I control networks that even governments can't touch. When people hear my name in those circles, they don't laugh. They kneel."
His knuckles whitened against the broken glass. But his gaze never left mine. "And tonight?"
I tilted my head, my voice turning casual. "Tonight, I handled business. Some rivals thought they could get clever. They bled. I walked away."
Then I let the mask slip, just slightly. My voice sharpened like a blade."But they called me something. Purple Eye Queen."
For the first time, my father froze. His control—impenetrable, unshakable—cracked. His eyes darkened, and for a moment, he looked less like a man and more like something older, something dangerous.
"Who?" His voice was almost a growl.
"They weren't random thugs. They knew something. They looked at me like I was a ghost that shouldn't exist." My gaze burned into his. "So tell me, Father. Why?"
Silence.
I had seen men break under interrogation, seen rivals spill blood just to escape my stare. But this silence was heavier. My father wasn't stalling because he didn't know what to say—he was stalling because once he said it, there'd be no turning back.
Finally, he exhaled, the sound sharp, final. He set the broken glass down on the desk, wiped his hand clean, and met my eyes head-on.
"You want the truth? Then listen carefully. You are not just my daughter. You are not just some orphan who clawed her way through the underworld. You are blood of the Valerians."
The name throbbed in the air, ancient, heavy.
"We are not merely a mafia dynasty, Calista. We are more. Our line is old, older than kingdoms, older than empires. We are one of the Immortal Clans. Bound by blood. Bound by power. And your mother…" His voice broke for just a second, and it startled me more than anything else. "…she was our greatest strength. Which is why our enemies came for her. Which is why you grew up in shadows, hidden even from yourself."
My breath caught. "So the people who killed her—"
"Were our enemies. Mine. Hers. And now, inevitably… yours." His gaze hardened. "And the moment they saw you tonight, they knew. They knew the Princess of the Immortals still lived."
The air in my chest turned to stone. Princess. He'd said it like it was nothing, but the word burned through me.
"And the eyes? The hair?" I whispered.
"Your mother's gift," he said. "The mark of our bloodline. They are a symbol, a curse, and a promise. To our allies, you are their heir. To our enemies…" His jaw tightened. "…you are the end of everything they fear."
I sat back, my pulse a storm. A Queen of shadows in one world, a Princess in another. And now both were colliding.
He watched me carefully, measuring every flicker of expression across my face. Then his voice softened, the sharp edge curling into something almost—almost—protective.
"You don't need the wig. Or the lenses. Not anymore."
My chest tightened. For years, I had hidden myself—my eyes, my hair, the parts of me that made me different. And now, just like that, he was telling me to strip it all away.
"Why now?" My voice was sharper than I intended. "Why not tell me before?"
"Because you weren't ready," he said simply. "But tomorrow night, you will be. There is a gala. Every family, every clan, every ally and enemy will be there. And you, Calista, will stand at my side as my daughter. My heiress. No more shadows. No more masks."
My heart slammed against my ribs. "And after?"
His lips thinned. "After the gala, I'll tell you the rest. Everything. What you must know. What you must become."
I leaned back, my smirk returning though it didn't quite reach my eyes. "So I go from an orphan hacker to mafia princess overnight. How poetic."
His gaze flicked to mine, sharp. "No, Calista. You were never an orphan. You were always a princess. The world just forgot. Now…" His hand tightened on the desk, veins straining against his skin. "…it will remember."
And in that moment, I realized—whatever the gala held, it wasn't just an introduction. It was a declaration of war.
My father didn't say another word. He simply stood, his presence filling the room like a storm that refused to break, and left without looking back. The heavy oak door clicked shut behind him, leaving me with nothing but silence and the echo of his words.
Princess. Heiress. Immortal bloodline.
It sounded like something out of a fantasy novel, not my life. Yet here I was, stitches fresh in my skin, blood still drying on my sleeve, being told I was the key to a legacy older than kingdoms.
For a long moment, I just sat there. My fingers drummed against the chair's armrest, sharp, impatient taps, like I could beat the confusion out of my skull. I had spent years carving myself into something lethal, untouchable—the Underworld Queen who didn't bow to anyone. And now? Now I was supposed to trade that throne of shadows for a crown dripping with bloodlines and expectation.
I leaned back and laughed softly, bitterly. "Heiress. Princess. Mafia royalty." The words tasted strange in my mouth. "Guess I've just been promoted."
But under the sarcasm, my chest ached. Not with weakness—never weakness—but with something far more dangerous. Doubt.
Because if what he said was true, then everything I thought I knew about myself… was a lie.
I kicked off my boots, tossed my hoodie aside, and stood before the mirror. The girl staring back wasn't the one I'd worn like armor. Without the wig, my hair spilled down in dark waves shot through with a shimmer that almost glowed under the light. And those eyes—the ones I'd always hidden under lenses—burned a violet that didn't belong in this world.
The Purple-Eyed Queen.
The title my enemies had whispered tonight. The name my father had confirmed with his silence.
I touched the glass, my reflection's eyes locking with mine. They didn't scare me. They terrified everyone else. And maybe that was my power.
But still…
"Why me?" I whispered.
The room didn't answer.
Hours slipped by in silence. I didn't move, didn't sleep, didn't even bother changing out of my blood-stained clothes. My mind replayed his words, dissecting every detail, every pause. There were things he wasn't telling me. Things buried so deep that even a Queen couldn't hack into them.
Tomorrow, he said. Tomorrow at the gala, I would be introduced. Tomorrow, I would stand in the spotlight and let the world know the Princess had returned.
But tonight? Tonight, I was still Calista—the orphan, the hacker, the ghost in the dark.
When exhaustion finally dragged me under, it wasn't peace I found. It was fire. My dreams swirled with fragments—my mother's voice, her laughter turned to screams, the gleam of a blade, and eyes just like mine staring back at me from the shadows.
I woke with a start, breath sharp, chest heaving. The dawn light bled through the curtains, too bright, too sharp. A new day had come.
And so had war.