The Alpha's Mafia Luna novel Chapter 10

By morning, I had sharpened two more spoons and was considering

starting a fork–based rebellion.

My room had windows now–sealed, of course–but they gave me

enough light to remember what the sun looked like. I pressed my

forehead to the cold glass and fantasized about smashing it open and

diving out, consequences be damned.

Instead, I got dressed.

Not because I cared, but because something told me Damian’s

mysterious “coach” wouldn’t appreciate being greeted by someone in

a bloodstained hoodie and sleep–deprived rage.

At exactly 9 a.m., there was a knock at the door.

Not the usual kind. Not the guard–knock that said obey or die. This

one was polite.

Dangerously polite.

I opened the door to a woman who looked like she’d been carved from

high society and weaponized for intimidation. Sharp cheekbones.

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Crimson lipstick. Blonde hair twisted into a bun so tight it could

probably deflect bullets. She wore a fitted black suit and heels sharp

enough to stab someone with.

“You must be Selene,” she said smoothly. “I’m Evelyn. Damian hired

me to make you… tolerable.”

I blinked. “You’re joking.”

She stepped past me without being invited in. “Your posture is

abysmal. We’ll fix that.”

I turned around slowly. “I don’t need fixing.”

She glanced at the spoons lined up like murder trophies on my

nightstand. “Mm. Debatable.”

I folded my arms. “Listen, Evelyn, I don’t care what designer prison

you escaped from, I’m not-”

“You’re not Luna material,” she interrupted, cool as a glacier. “I know.

I read the file.”

File?

What file?

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Oh, that bastard.

She walked over to my bed and picked up one of my spoons. “You

have potential. Raw, jagged, undignified potential. But that’s what

I’m here for. To chisel.”

I stared. “You’re serious.”

“Deadly.”

Great. I’d gotten myself a personal Luna sculptor. A blonde

executioner in Louboutin heels. A crown therapist.

“Do I get a choice?” I asked.

Evelyn smiled faintly. “No.”

Of course not.

She pulled a small remote from her bag and pressed a button. The

door behind her opened again, and in came two assistants carrying

garment bags, boxes of heels, and what I assumed were books–but

probably felt more like weapons.

“Your first lesson begins now,” Evelyn said. “Walk like someone who

owns the room. Not like someone who’s about to rob it.”

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I narrowed my eyes. “I am about to rob it.”

She ignored that and snapped her fingers. “Chin up. Back straight.

Shoulders down. Breathe like you weren’t raised in a war zone.”

I inhaled.

Exhaled.

And fantasized about stabbing her in the throat with a stiletto.

Three Hours Later…

My feet were crying. My back ached. My brain wanted to jump out of

my skull and slap someone.

But Evelyn didn’t break.

She made me walk across the marble floor with books on my head like

I was auditioning to be the next tortured Disney princess. Then came

table etiquette: napkin on lap, chew like a lady, don’t threaten your

host even if they’re a tyrant.

“Selene,” Evelyn sighed again. “You can’t just glare at people into

submission.”

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“It worked on the guard.”

“He now avoids this hallway entirely.”

“Exactly.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re exhausting.”

“And you’re still here.”

“You’re a Luna–in–training, not a blunt object.”

“Can’t I be both?”

She said nothing. Just handed me a teacup like it was a holy relic.

“This,” she said, “is where we start.‘

“With what? Poison tasting?”

“Tea etiquette. It matters. Believe it or not, this is the kind of event you’ll be hosting. Leaders come here. Councils. Alpha wives. And they

will test you.”

“Then I’ll test them back,” I said, sipping like it was wine.

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She smiled, for the first time.

Not a friendly smile. A knowing one.

“Good. Keep that fire. But channel it.”

Late Afternoon

By the time I was allowed to sit down like a human being, I was in a

fitted navy dress with sleeves so tight I could barely breathe. Evelyn

walked circles around me, adjusting my posture like I was a

mannequin.

Then came speech training. Apparently, I talked like a soldier who bit

her tongue too often.

“Try again,” she said. “This time, say it with elegance.”

“I will slit your throat if you insult me again,” I repeated, with a

smile.

She sighed. “We’ll work on tone later.”

One of her assistants came forward with a tray–tea, this time. A

“refinement test,” she called it.

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I picked up the cup properly. Used the right spoon. Didn’t slurp. And

didn’t throw anything.

“Progress,” Evelyn said.

“Congratulations,” I said flatly. “You’ve civilized the beast.”

Then came the knock.

I recognized the rhythm instantly–arrogant, effortless.

Damian.

Of course.

He walked in like he owned the world. White shirt. Black slacks. The

usual watch ticking away like a loaded threat. His hair was slightly tousled like he’d just come back from burning down a building or

making a deal with the devil.

He stopped in the doorway and took one long look.

I could tell he was surprised.

Good.

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“Progress?” he asked.

Evelyn stood straighter. “Minimal. But measurable. She doesn’t walk

like a feral anymore.”

“She is feral,” Damian said, without looking away from me.

I curtsied. Mocking. Regal.

“Your Luna, Your Majesty,” I said in a fake accent.

He blinked. “Lose the sarcasm.”

“Lose the ego.”

He didn’t smile. Neither did I.

Just silence, heavy and hot.

Then his phone buzzed.

He looked at it, frowned, and slid it back into his pocket.