⌐╦─ LET THEM LOOK

The room was quiet, lit only by the warm, dim glow of a single brass floor lamp that cast long, dramatic shadows against the walls. The walls themselves were painted a deep, velvety crimson—the color of aged wine, or perhaps dried blood. It was a space defined by premium, vintage aesthetics.

Heavy mahogany bookshelves lined the perimeter, packed with leather-bound volumes that looked centuries old. The air carried the faint, rich scent of polished wood, antique paper, and expensive tobacco. It was an environment designed for absolute privacy, tucked far away from the chaotic streets of the city.

Serafina sat leaned far back on a Chesterfield sofa made of cracked, dark leather. Her legs were crossed elegantly at the knee, one boot bouncing slightly in a slow rhythm.

She hadn't stripped off the horror of the previous night. She was still wearing the exact same clothes she had worn when she leaped off the building. Her sharp, black-and-white striped pants were creased, and the cream-colored t-shirt tucked neatly into her waistband was ruined, painted with a grotesque, splattered pattern of dark red stains.

Her heavy, dark trench coat hung loosely from the rolled armrest of the sofa, the hem slightly damp from the morning fog. 

Her left hand rested casually on her knee, still stained a deep, terrible crimson. The blood had completely dried by now, tightening her skin like an unwanted glove, and dark crusty residue was buried deep beneath her fingernails. She hadn't even attempted to wash it off.

To look at her, one would see a living nightmare, a ghost freshly risen from a slaughterhouse. Yet, her posture was entirely relaxed, her breathing steady, and her gaze perfectly focused. 

Sitting directly across from her in a matching velvet armchair was Elijah.

He was a striking contrast to the grim, blood-soaked woman on the sofa. Elijah possessed the kind of aristocratic, sharp-jawed British looks that belonged on a vintage movie poster—unbelievably handsome, with piercing gray eyes, high cheekbones, and a perfectly clean-shaven face that highlighted his flawless complexion. His hair was meticulously styled, dark and parted slightly to the side.

His attire, however, was pure, high-end Italian luxury. He wore a bespoke, tailored charcoal suit made of fine wool that hugged his broad shoulders perfectly.

His crisp white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar just enough to look effortless, revealing a silver chain, and a silk pocket square poked neatly out of his breast pocket. He looked immaculate, smelling of expensive cologne and refined wealth, a complete civilian paradise compared to the gritty underworld reality sitting just three feet away from him.

Elijah leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, interlocking his clean, unblemished fingers. His gray eyes slowly swept over her ruined shirt, mapping the splatters of her father's blood before finally meeting her gaze.

He didn't look at her with horror or disgust. He looked at her with the quiet, intense focus of someone who knew exactly what that blood cost her.  

"It's been twelve hours, Sera," Elijah spoke, his voice smooth and carrying a faint, melodic British cadence. "You should at least change your clothes. You look like a walking murder conviction." 

Serafina didn't shift her posture. She merely tilted her head up slightly, looking down her nose at him with an expression of cold indifference. 

She raised her stained left hand, casually inspecting the dried blood beneath her fingernails. Her gaze flickered, a dark, heavy shadow crossing her eyes. It was the last physical piece of her father left in this world, dried like concrete against her skin. Washing it off felt like washing away the crime scene—like letting the killer win.   

"I'm more concerned about the current situation than my attire, Elijah," she replied, her voice low and steady, entirely unaffected by his critique. "A change of clothes isn't going to fix what happened, nor is it going to change what happens next."

Elijah let out a short, sudden laugh. The sound was bright, contrasting sharply with the heavy, dark mood of the room. He leaned back into his velvet armchair, a highly amused, handsome smile spreading across his face. 

"Fair point, darling" Elijah chuckled, shaking his head slightly. "But let's be exact here—no one is going to believe you didn't kill your father, regardless of what you are wearing. Whether you're in a blood-stained t-shirt or a pristine evening gown, the entire world already has you pinned as a monster. Your own family is practically sharpening their knives."

Serafina's lips twitched upward into a sharp, dangerous smirk. The expression didn't reach her eyes, which remained as cold and unreadable as blocks of ice.

"I don't plan on convincing anyone, Elijah," she said softly, her tone dripping with quiet arrogance. She raised her stained left hand, casually inspecting the dried blood beneath her fingernails as if she were looking at a mediocre manicure. "They can think whatever they want, for all I care. The police can draft their warrants, the mafia can plot their little revenges, and my step- mother can weep to the press. Let them believe the worst. It keeps them predictable."

Elijah watched her closely, the amusement in his eyes shifting into something deeper, a quiet respect for the sheer iron will of the woman sitting across from him. He adjusted the cuff of his Italian suit, leaning back into the shadows of the room.

"Predictable is dangerous, Sera," Elijah murmured, his handsome features growing serious. "Predictable means they deploy everything they have to erase you from the board. Your brother Simone has already been pushed forward to take the throne. If they think you're a rogue element who slaughtered the Don, they won't stop until they find you." 

"Let them look," Serafina said, her smirk fading back into a mask of absolute, terrifying composure. "They are looking for a murder suspect. They aren't ready for what's actually coming."

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