Bound By Obsession

Debt Of Blood

Okay so first thing about Romano Enterprises?

It doesn’t breathe.

Like literally.

The whole building looks alive outside, all shiny and glowing like some rich dude’s toy. But when you’re inside? Nope. No life. Just cold glass, expensive, ass marble floors, and silence so thick it makes your ribs hurt. It felt less like an office and more like a prison with extra sparkle.

And me? Yeah, I was the mistake that walked in. The smudge on their perfect picture frame.

The driver didn’t even explain anything, just kind of shoved me toward this desk where some woman in a super tight black dress looked me up and down like she was trying to figure out which trash can I belonged in. Didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. Just did this little eye flick thing and went, “Follow me.”

So I did. Like what else was I supposed to do? Run?

The elevator ride felt like hell in slow motion. The higher it went, the colder it got. Not the AC kind of cold, but the kind that crawls in your stomach and whispers, “Hey, you’re about to regret everything.”

By the time the doors opened, I was sweating like crazy under my jacket. The floor was so damn quiet, carpet muffling every step. At the end of the hallway, I saw these glass doors with one name etched across them.

Matteo Romano.

Yeah. Him.

The lady tapped once, opened the door, and just motioned me inside like she couldn’t wait to drop me off and wash her hands of me.

And there he was.

Behind this massive desk that could probably double as a coffin, standing like the whole city of Milan belonged to him. Matteo.

I’d seen him last night in the lobby. Cold. Scary. But in daylight? Oh, it was worse. Or better, if terrifying perfection is your thing. Black suit. Crisp white shirt. Hair slicked back like he owned the concept of gravity. Not a single wrinkle anywhere. Not even in his face.

And his eyes, God. Those eyes didn’t look at you. They cut.

He didn’t even look up right away. Just kept signing papers with these long fingers like I wasn’t even worth acknowledging. My skin buzzed like I was standing too close to a power line.

Finally, he spoke.

“You’re late.”

I froze. “I…what?”

He looked up so slow, like a predator noticing prey. “Nine o’clock sharp. It’s 9:07.”

My brain blanked. “I….I wasn’t given a time…”

“Excuses,” he cut in, leaning back in his chair like a king looking at a servant. “Excuses won’t save you here. If you want to survive, Miss Cruz, you’ll learn that fast.”

Survive.

Not work.

Not endure.

But Survive!

The word hit me like ice water. I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted blood.

“I didn’t choose to be here,” I muttered before my brain could stop me.

And his storm-grey eyes snapped to mine, sharp enough to split me in half. “No one ever does.”

He stood up and holy crap, it felt like the walls shrunk. I stumbled a step back, clutching my bag like it could save me.

“This is how it works,” he said, walking around the desk with steps so slow and deliberate it felt like torture. “Your family owes me. You will pay me back. With work. With obedience. With silence. Fail, and you’ll wish I left you in the gutter.”

My throat burned. “How much do they even owe?”

His mouth twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. It was worse. “Enough to keep you here a very long time.”

And my stomach just… dropped.

He didn’t ask what I could do, didn’t ask if I had skills, didn’t even care. Just shoved a fat folder into my hands. Contracts. Terms. Words I barely understood.

“Sign.”

I froze.

My name on that paper would basically chain me here forever.

His eyes flicked up. “Or would you prefer I collect payment another way?”

And boom. My face went red. I wanted to throw the pen at him but my hands were shaking too much. I scrawled my name anyway, like an i***t.

“Good girl,” he said, voice smooth but sharp enough to bleed. It wasn’t praise. It was ownership.

The rest of the morning blurred. Orders, schedules, files, names of rich scary people with dead shark eyes in their photos. I tried to focus, but every time I looked up, I felt him. Even when he wasn’t in the room, it was like he branded my skin invisible.

By noon, I was starving, my head buzzing. I asked the desk assistant (her name’s Giulia and her whole personality is disdain) for a break. She actually laughed in my face.

“Breaks? For debts? Cute.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat so hard it hurt.

Then the elevator dinged.

And the whole air in the room changed.

This guy walked out like sunlight through a thunderstorm.

Dark blue suit, tie hanging loose, hair a little messy in that “I didn’t try but I still look hot” kind of way. His smile? Way too warm for this place.

His eyes, brown, soft, totally opposite of Matteo’s knives, landed on me instantly.

“New face,” he said, strolling closer, voice smooth like honey. “Not one of the usual robots. What’s your name?”

Before I could even breathe, Giulia hissed, “She’s debt.”

His eyebrows shot up. He looked me over, not in a gross way, not like Matteo’s cold dismissal. Just… curious. Interested.

He held out a hand. “Marco Romano. And you are?”

Romano again.

Of course. The brother.

Every instinct screamed at me not to. Not to take his hand, not to trust another damn Romano. But his smile was so easy, so warm, like he could actually see me.

And yeah, I gave in. My fingers slipped into his.

Warmth. Safety. A lifeline I didn’t even know I was desperate for.

He held my hand just a little too long, lips curving. “Well. This is going to be fun.”

And for the first time since Alejandro and Carmen wrecked my life, my stomach didn’t ache.

It flipped.