Bound By Blood: The Mafia's Vengeance

Serena Valente stepped from the limo onto the walkway, wearing a red fitted, silky gown that flowed around her ankles, with a slit long enough to reveal her white thighs. Two bodyguards escorted her, her father made sure she always had them with her whenever she stepped out. Marco Valente had sent her with orders, Smile and charm the donors. Remind them who keeps this coast safe. She hated the dress, hated the heels. Hated always being kept on a leash but she smiled anyway. Inside the ballroom, Serena slipped past the crowd, aiming for the terrace. She needed fresh air and a few moments alone before roleplaying. From the upper balcony, Adrian Moretti watched her enter. He stood motionless, one hand in his pocket, the other curled around a glass of whiskey. She was early. The information gathered on her said “pampered heiress.” It lied. Serena moved like someone on watch. Shoulders back, chin high. But her fingers kept brushing the slit in her dress, checking for the blade she wasn’t allowed to carry tonight. Beautiful. Too beautiful. Long black hair pinned in a loose knot, exposing the curve of her neck with skin just like warm porcelain. Mouth painted blood-red. Eyes green and feral, scanning the room like she expected an attack. Adrian’s jaw tightened. He hated how his pulse kicked at the sight of her, hated the reminder that he was still a man, not the weapon he had spent the last six years turning himself into. Hated the way heat coiled low when she laughed at something a donor said. Valente's blood. His sister’s killer had that blood. He slipped a photo from his pocket. Sofia, sixteen, smiling at the camera. Same eyes and mouth as the woman below. Adrian’s fingers trembled with rage and something darker. He crushed the photo and shoved it back. Focus, he told himself. Serena felt the stare again. It had started when she stepped out of the car, prickling the back of her neck. Now it was heavier. Like a hand resting between her shoulder blades. She turned slowly. Up on the balcony, a man in black. Half in shadow, she stood watching her without blinking. Her stomach dipped. He wasn’t one of her father’s men. That face… Moretti. The name flashed like a warning. She’d heard of him, seen photos even. A hard, ugly scar ran through his brow down to his hard jaw. Making him look scary and devilishly handsome at the same time. A donor beside her whispered something to his partner, their eyes moving towards the balcony. Serena didn’t catch the words, but the tone was sharp enough to raise every instinct she had in her. She snatched a flute of champagne from a waitress and drank it in one go. She had a troubling feeling he was here for her. She quickly scanned the room for her bodyguards. One was laughing with a woman near the bar. The other was already on his second drink. “Useless” — she muttered under her breath. She could scream. Cause a scene. But Marco would punish her for embarrassing the family. So she smiled at the nearest donor, let him kiss her knuckles, and edged toward the side exit, forcing calm into her breath the way her uncle once taught her during knife drills. Adrian saw the plan. So he moved. Following her silhouette down the stairs. Serena reached the dimly lit corridor, with velvet walls that seemed to swallow the light. No cameras. Perfect. She slipped through a service door into the gardens, exhaling as the cool night air brushed her skin. She turned toward the narrow stone path leading toward the east wing, her only way out. A shadow detached from the treeline and stepped into her path. Adrian. The moonlight caught the hard edges of his face as he took lethal and unhurried steps toward her, until he positioned himself directly on the path she was about to take. His body filled the space, blocking the only route back to the house, trapping her between the gardens and him. Serena halted, her heart hammering against her ribs. She straightened, fighting the instinct to step back, forcing her voice to stay steady. “You’re not supposed to be here,” she said. “Neither are you.” His voice was low, rough. Like he hadn’t used it in days. She took a step back. “My guards—” “Are drunk. I made sure of it.” His tone was almost casual. “And paid to look away.” He advanced. Slow and deliberate. Serena’s hand moved toward her thigh, but found it empty. No knife. Adrian noticed. His mouth curved into a half smile. “Looking for this?” He held up her blade. A small, silver knife was stolen from her dresser smoothly. Her breath caught. Marco didn't only teach her to charm donors, he also taught her where to stab. She could take him, if she had that knife. He closed the distance and stopped just short of touching her. Close enough for her to smell bergamot and steel. Close enough to see the pulse leaping in her throat. “You’re prettier than the pictures,” he said. “And you’re dead if you touch me.” He leaned in. Lips brushing her ear. “I’m counting on it.” A black cloth was pressed over her mouth before she could react. The scent was chemical and sweet, forcing its way down her throat. She fought, using her elbow on his ribs and her knee to kick. He absorbed it, twisted her arm behind her back, and pinned her to his chest. Her vision blurred. The last thing she saw was his cold eyes. Then darkness. Adrian caught her as she slumped, lifted her easily, and carried her through the gardens to the cliff path. A speedboat with a silent engine waited below. As he lay her inside, he brushed a thumb across her cheek. Soft. Too soft.