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They say blood calls to blood.
But sometimes, it feels more like a warning.
I'm Aryana Das—or at least that's who I've been all my life. A quiet girl from a middle-class family in Guwahati. But now… that name feels like a mask I can't remove.
Two weeks ago, everything changed.
It was raining heavily, the kind of rain that floods the streets and traps you inside your own thoughts. I was soaked from school, uniform clinging to me, hair dripping down my back. Mom was working her night shift at the hospital again, and Baba was at the railway station, tired as always.
My little sister Mili, only seven, was curled asleep on the couch, clutching her crayons like they were treasures.
I slipped quietly into my room and there it was—a letter, resting on my desk like it had been waiting for me.
No stamp, no sender. Just my full name written in thick, elegant ink:
Aryana L. Rosel
I froze.
I barely recognized the last name. Rosel—that was supposed to be the name of my real family, the one I never knew.
Hands shaking, I carefully opened the letter.
> "Princess,
You've started searching. That means the blood in you is finally listening.
I won't stop you. But be careful.
Curiosity in the Rosel family is a dangerous game.
We're all watching. Some with love.
Some with hunger."
No signature. Just a gold seal pressed with the shape of a snake swallowing its own tail.
That wasn't a threat. It was a welcome.
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Since then, my life has split into two.
At school, I'm still Aryana Das, the shy girl from a small family, sitting quietly at the back of the classroom, dodging the gossip about who's dating who. My friends' stories—endless love affairs, heartbreaks, silly drama—felt like another world.
Aryana Das was safe.
Aryana Rosel was dangerous.
But at night, when the lights dimmed and the quiet crept in, I felt the eyes on me. Not just my parents' or friends'. Eyes from shadows I never wanted to see.
One afternoon, during lunch, my phone buzzed.
An unknown number messaged:
> "Red looks good on you."
I glanced down. I was wearing a red ribbon in my hair—a small thing, but it made me feel brave.
I looked around the crowded cafeteria. Girls in their white school uniforms, plates of rice and dal, laughter bouncing off the walls. No one I recognized as the sender.
I texted back, heart pounding:
> "Who is this?"
No reply.
Later, I found a note stuck behind my bedroom door, the handwriting sharp and deliberate:
> "He sees you, little sister."
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Who?
The more I learned about my real family, the more I realized how complicated everything was.
My father, Aeron Rosel—known to the world as a billionaire businessman—was actually the hidden kingpin of a vast mafia empire.
He had fifteen sons, all born from different women, all raised in their own worlds.
And then there was me—the only daughter.
One of my brothers was Elliot Rosel. Three years older, an artist living quietly in Berlin.
I found his private Instagram and sent a follow request.
Seconds later, he accepted.
His message read:
> "Took you long enough, Aryana."
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Then came another message—from a different number.
> "Stay away from Elliot. He's mine."
No name. No clue.
A warning or a threat?
I wasn't sure.
What I did know was this: I was no longer invisible. The Rosel family was watching. And the game had just begun.
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