Bound by Blood

Another day, another dollar. That is what people usually say when life decides to kick you in the teeth. The problem with our family is that the dollars ran out months ago, and the teeth-kicking is just getting started. I stood near the high arched windows of the DeLuca manor dining room, watching the rain streak down the glass while the heavy scent of wax polish and old silver filled the cold space. The long mahogany table was set for six, every crystal glass polished until it shone, every napkin folded into sharp, aggressive angles. It was all a grand performance, a high-stakes play put on to hide the rot eating away at our foundation.

My father cleared his throat at the head of the table. Dominic Greco looked older than his sixty-two years tonight, his skin paper-thin under the chandelier light, his hands trembling slightly as he poured himself another finger of expensive scotch. He did not look like a man who commanded an empire. He looked like a gambler reaching the end of a long, desperate night.

“It is settled, then,” my father said, his voice raspy and thin. He kept his eyes fixed on his glass, unable to meet mine or my sister’s. “The agreement is drawn up. Lia will marry Matteo Moretti by the end of the month.”

A heavy, suffocating silence dropped over the room. Beside me, Lia sucked in a quiet, fragile breath. She sat perfectly still in her chair, her honey-blonde hair falling over her narrow shoulders like a silk shawl. Her hazel eyes wide with a strange, solemn acceptance. She did not scream. She did not cry. She simply nodded, her small hand folding tightly over her napkin in her lap.

“If it brings peace,” Lia whispered, her voice barely carrying across the vast expanse of polished wood. “If it stops the fighting, Father, then I will do it.”

“Peace?” I snapped, the word exploding out of me before I could stop it. My heels dug into the Persian rug as I took three fast strides toward the head of the table. “You call this peace? You are selling her! You are treating your own daughter like a piece of livestock to cover up your own damn mistakes!”

“Sofia, sit down,” my father ordered, though there was no real power behind the command. His fingers tightened around his tumbler.

“No,” I said, leaning over the table, glaring directly into his tired, bloodshot eyes. “We have fought for this family for years. I have bled for this family. And now you expect Lia to throw her entire life away because you cannot manage your books? The Morettis are predators, Dad. They wear tailored suits, but they are cold-blooded killers. Every single one of them.”

“We have no choice!” Dominic suddenly slammed his palm against the mahogany, the sudden noise echoing off the marble walls like a gunshot. The scotch sloshed over the rim of his glass, staining the crisp white tablecloth. His mask slipped, showing the raw terror underneath. “The books are dry, Sofia! The bank accounts are empty! We have no shipments coming in, our safehouses are compromised, and Carmine Esposito is squeezing our northern territory until we bleed out. Without the Moretti money and their guns, the DeLuca name dies before the winter is out. We are completely broke.”

The words hung in the chilly air, heavy and absolute. I stared at him, my mouth opening slightly, but no sound came out. Broke. The grand empire my grandfather built, reduced to a hollow shell held together by pride and debt.

Lia reached across the gap and touched my wrist, her fingers cool and gentle. “Sofia, please,” she murmured softly. “It is okay. I want to help.”

Before I could wrap my head around the depth of our father’s failure, the heavy oak doors at the end of the dining room swung open. The heavy air in the room shifted instantly, charged with a sudden, dangerous electricity.

Matteo Moretti stepped across the threshold. He moved with a quiet, terrifying authority, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. He wore a dark bespoke three-piece suit without a single wrinkle, his dark hair slicked back with clinical precision. His presence was heavy, a calculated force that did not need to shout to demand absolute submission. He did not look around the room with curiosity; he scanned it like a general assessing a conquered territory.

Then came his brother.

Luca Moretti sauntered into the room a few paces behind Matteo, looking like he had wandered in from a completely different planet. His dark silk tie hung loose around an unbuttoned collar, exposing the collarbone and a glimpse of ink beneath his skin. A fresh, purple bruise decorated the hard line of his jaw, contrast against a smirking grin that practically dared someone to start a fight. While Matteo looked like a king, Luca looked like a thief who had just pocketed the crown jewels for the sheer thrill of it.

“Charming place,” Luca said, his deep voice dripping with lazy sarcasm as he glanced up at the vaulted ceiling. “A little light on the warmth, though. Feels like a funeral home in here. Did somebody die, or is this just how you DeLucas celebrate good news?”

The sheer arrogance of his tone sent a spike of white-hot fury straight up my spine. My hands curled into tight fists at my sides.

“Shut your mouth,” I said, stepping away from the table to face him directly, my voice dropping an octave into a low, lethal promise. “You are in my house, Moretti. If your family mistreats my sister by even a single hair on her head, I will personally cut your throat while you sleep.”

Luca stopped in his tracks, his dark eyes locking onto mine. For a second, the cocky smirk faltered, replaced by a flash of genuine surprise that quickly melted into something far more dangerous—amusement. His gaze dragged over me, slow and deliberate, taking in the sharp cut of my blazer, the stiff posture, the absolute fury radiating off me. Instead of reaching for a weapon or offering a threat, he simply leaned against the back of an empty chair and offered me a slow, infuriating wink.

“I’d like to see you try, sweetheart,” Luca drawled, his voice laced with a playful, teasing lilt. “You’ve got a lot of bite for a family running on borrowed time.”

“Luca,” Matteo said. He did not raise his voice, but the single word cut through the air like a blade. Luca raised his hands in mock surrender, though the mischievous glint never left his eyes.

Matteo turned his attention away from the conflict and walked slowly toward Lia. His boots made steady, rhythmic sounds against the floorboards. I moved instinctively to block his path, but Lia stepped around me, standing tall despite her small frame.

Matteo stopped two feet away from her. He did not loom over her or try to intimidate her with his size. Instead, he dipped his head slightly in a gesture of profound, unexpected respect. His dark eyes softened just enough for me to notice the change.

“Lia,” Matteo said, his voice deep, measured, and calm. “I know why we are here tonight. I know what your father has asked of you. But I want you to hear this from me: I am not looking for a hostage, nor am I looking for a servant. If you agree to this union, you will be my wife. You will have my protection, my respect, and my full support in all things. It will be a true partnership, not a prison.”

Lia looked up at him, her wide hazel eyes searching his face for any sign of deceit. Finding none, a faint, fragile smile touched her lips. “Thank you, Matteo,” she said softly. “That is more than I hoped for.”

My father exhaled a long, shuddering breath and picked up the crystal decanter, pouring rich red wine into four glasses. He passed them down the table, his hands still trembling as he held his own glass high.

“To the alliance,” Dominic announced, his voice tight with desperation. “To the future of our families.”

Matteo raised his glass, taking a slow sip. Luca did the same, catching my eye over the rim of his glass and offering a silent, mocking toast in my direction. I ignored the wine completely, keeping my arms crossed over my chest, my blood boiling beneath my skin.

The deal was struck. The paperwork would follow, but the contract was already written in fear, blood, and desperation. Lia had made her choice to protect us, and Matteo had shown his hand. But as I watched Luca Moretti leaning against the table with that infuriating, beautiful smirk plastered across his face, I made a silent promise of my own. I would watch his every single step. And if he or his family stepped out of line, I would tear their world apart piece by piece.