The Devil's Palace

By Tahreer Khayal

The memory faded like smoke in winter air.

And when Liora blinked again—

She was no longer a girl with painted walls and broken dreams.

She was a prisoner.

Her wrists still bore the red lines where the ropes had rubbed raw.

Her clothes smelled faintly of ash and blood, mingling with the stale air trapped inside the blacked-out car.

Her tears traced silent paths down cheeks still radiant with a fragile, haunting beauty—

Proof that even in pain, she could not be dimmed.

But her chin was high, her back straight—

Because weakness had no place here.

Not in his world.

The black gates groaned open as the car pulled up the long driveway, tires whispering over smooth marble.

It wasn’t a home.

It was a kingdom carved from shadow and silence.

And at the center of it all stood his mansion—

Cold, beautiful, and untouchable.

Like him.

The guards opened her door.

She didn’t move.

Not until one of them yanked her roughly by the arm.

She stepped out. Barefoot. Silent. Proud.

A lamb walking into the lion’s den…

But she refused to look like prey.

The massive doors swung open before her like a mouth waiting to devour its next victim.

Inside, everything was gold and black.

Glass chandeliers dripped like frozen fire, casting fractured light across marble floors that echoed with each reluctant step.

And then—there he was.

Gabriel Amedeo Salvatore.

Il Diavolo.

The man who had stormed into her home like a nightmare with a heartbeat.

He’d seen her before.

Touched her chin.

Looked into her eyes as if reading a secret only she thought was buried.

But here, in his world, he looked colder—

Sharper—

More untouchable.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

Because power didn’t ask.

It commanded.

Liora’s breath hitched—

Not from fear.

But from the cold, bitter fire rising in her chest.

He was exactly the kind of man she hated.

The kind her father was.

The kind who used violence as language and blood as currency.

The kind who never broke—only broke others.

Gabriel Salvatore was everything she despised.

And now she was in his house.

In his world.

At his mercy.

“Bring her upstairs,” he said finally, voice low and smooth like poisoned wine.

“She and I need to talk.”

They led her through endless hallways lined with heavy oil paintings and the silence of secrets.

Each step carried her deeper into his kingdom of shadows and power.

Her heart beat louder with every footfall, a drum of defiance and dread.

A sharp, anguished voice pierced the air—

She was crying, screaming, shattered.

“You brought the daughter of the killer into my house!”

The words echoed like broken glass thrown against stone, bitter and raw.

Liora froze.

Behind one of the doors, a woman’s sobs collapsed into rage.

“You should have killed her, Gabriel! Her father murdered my son—and you bring her here?”

The voice cracked, feral with grief.

“She’s his daughter! His blood!”

A hush fell.

Then Gabriel’s voice cut through the chaos—cold, sharp, final.

“She will pay for her father’s sins.”

“I will find him,” he added, each word like a blade.

“And when I do, I’ll bury him with my own hands.”

A gasp slipped from Liora’s lips.

But she didn’t stop walking.

She just held her head higher—

Even as the weight of vengeance grew heavier behind every door.

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