Marked by you

Bloods Oaths

The morning air inside the estate was crisp, filtered through high-end ventilation systems that kept the silence cold and controlled. Helena sat at the edge of the massive oak desk in Miguel’s private office, the same black folder open in front of her. The names, the photos, the operations — all of it felt like reading a foreign language made of danger.

But she was learning quickly.

Miguel hadn’t shown himself since the night before. Not at breakfast. Not during her quiet walk through the garden. Not even during the short meeting she'd had with one of his lieutenants, a tall, sharp-eyed woman named Camila who studied her like a wolf circling prey.

“You’re braver than I expected,” Camila had said, offering a fake smile. “Most women who walk into his life don’t walk out.”

Helena had only smiled in return. “Maybe I didn’t come to walk out.”

But the message was clear: not everyone in this house wanted her there.

A soft knock broke the silence.

The door opened without waiting for permission, and a man in his forties stepped inside. Tall. Salt-and-pepper hair. Dark blue suit tailored perfectly. His eyes were cold, calculating.

“You must be Helena,” he said, closing the door behind him. “I’m Matteo. Miguel’s consigliere. Until yesterday, at least.”

Helena stood slowly, her posture calm but ready. “Then I suppose that makes us… colleagues.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “So it does. I’m here to deliver your first assignment. You’ll be accompanying Miguel to a meeting tonight. Neutral territory. Italian syndicate.”

“Why me?”

“Because you're the message,” Matteo said smoothly. “You walk in with him, it means something’s changed. That he's no longer hiding his weaknesses. That you're not just a woman — you’re a piece on the board.”

Helena tilted her head slightly. “Is that how you see me? A weakness?”

He took a slow step forward, voice lower now. “I see you as someone who hasn’t earned trust yet. Someone who could become a liability. Miguel’s smart. But love makes even the smartest men bleed.”

Helena didn’t flinch. “Then maybe you should be more worried about what I’d do if someone made him bleed.”

Matteo smiled again, but this time, there was a flicker of something darker beneath it — respect, maybe. Or a warning.

He handed her a sealed envelope.

“Details inside. Dress for war.”

Then he was gone.

---

That evening, Helena stood before the mirror in her room, dressed in black silk — elegant, powerful. The gown was cut to accentuate every curve, but with high slits and a backless design that whispered both grace and danger. Her hair was pinned, her lips a blood-red promise.

When Miguel entered the room, he didn’t speak at first. Just stared.

His eyes roamed from her heels to her mouth like he was memorizing her shape, her presence, her choice to stand beside him in the underworld.

“You look…” His voice trailed off. Words didn’t seem enough.

Helena stepped toward him slowly. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? A woman who doesn’t flinch. Who walks into the lion’s den at your side.”

Miguel’s jaw tightened. “No. This is what I never deserved.”

She touched his chest, feeling the storm beneath his skin. “Then let me be the one thing you get anyway.”

He kissed her — just once. Deep and possessive. Then turned away.

“We leave in ten.”

---

The drive to the meeting point was quiet. The car smelled of gunmetal and leather. Helena sat beside Miguel in the back, their thighs brushing with every turn of the road. He wore all black — suit, shirt, gloves — and looked every bit the man she remembered from the news, the whispered legends: Miguel De Luca, king in shadows.

But here, next to her, he was flesh and blood.

As they neared the location, he finally spoke.

“There will be cameras. Guns under the tables. Everyone in that room would kill to see me weakened.”

“I won’t be your weakness,” she said.

He glanced at her. “You’re not. That’s what makes this dangerous.”

---

The meeting took place in a private gallery downtown — polished marble floors, high ceilings, abstract art, and men in expensive suits who smiled with knives in their eyes.

Helena felt them watching her as she entered on Miguel’s arm, their gazes sharp and curious. She smiled softly, letting them look. She didn’t shrink. She didn’t waver.

Miguel led her to a long table at the center of the gallery, where four men were already seated. At the head sat Don Vescari — silver hair, ringed fingers, and a voice that oozed honey and venom.

“Ah, Miguel,” he said with a grin. “You brought a date.”

Miguel didn’t smile. “I brought my partner.”

That made a few brows rise.

Don Vescari turned to Helena. “And what’s your role, bella? The heart or the blade?”

Helena met his gaze. “Both. Depending on how the night ends.”

A few chuckles echoed, but Miguel’s hand brushed hers under the table — a silent approval.

The meeting began, tension threading the air like smoke. Territories. Shipping routes. Broken truces. Miguel negotiated with precision, his voice smooth but lethal.

Helena listened, absorbed. But she could feel something else in the room — a wrongness. Eyes that lingered too long. Signals exchanged between two men across the table. A beat too long between replies.

They were stalling.

Waiting.

Her instincts screamed just before she saw it — the flicker of movement from a guard near the exit. Hand to gun.

Without thinking, she reached under the table, pressing her heel hard into Miguel’s foot — once.

He reacted instantly.

Miguel stood, chair scraping violently.

“Enough,” he said coldly. “This meeting is over.”

Don Vescari feigned confusion. “What’s the rush—?”

“She saw it,” Miguel cut him off. “Your man by the door. You came here planning a betrayal.”

The gallery erupted into movement — guards stepping forward, hands on weapons.

But Miguel was faster.

He reached inside his jacket and placed a single gold coin on the table — an old mafia token. A blood oath. It meant only one thing:

This insult would be answered.

Vescari’s smile vanished.

Helena stood beside Miguel, calm as fire. She didn’t blink when guns were raised. Didn’t flinch when the first threat was made.

She had died once already.

This was her second life.

And she’d made her choice.

---

Back in the car, silence reigned again. Miguel sat tense, jaw clenched, staring out the window.

Finally, he spoke.

“You shouldn’t have noticed that guard. No one else did.”

“I did,” she replied simply.

He turned to her, something fierce in his eyes. “You were meant to be a symbol tonight. Not a player.”

She leaned close. “Then stop treating me like decoration. I’m not afraid of what you are, Miguel.”

“And what if I’m afraid of what you’re becoming?” he said, voice low.

She smiled, dark and slow. “Then you better keep me close.”

He pulled her into him roughly, his mouth finding hers in a kiss that tasted of fury and promise. When they parted, breathless and burning, he whispered:

“You’re mine now.”

Helena smiled.

“I always was.”