BOUND BY SIN SWORN BY BLOOD ( The Devil Who Claimed Me)

Seraphina Pov I learned the sound of disaster before I saw it. It wasn’t the explosion first—not the fire, not the screams—but the silence that came before it. That thick, unnatural pause where the world seemed to inhale and forget how to breathe. Then everything collapsed. Metal screamed. Concrete shattered. Flames ripped through the night like a living thing, hungry and merciless. The docks—my parents’ docks—turned into a graveyard in seconds. I was running before my brain caught up. Sirens wailed in the distance, red and blue lights bleeding into the black sky, but none of it felt real. My feet hit the pavement hard, lungs burning, heart pounding so violently it hurt. People ran past me in every direction, faces streaked with ash and terror, shouting names that would never be answered. “Hale! Jonah Hale!” someone yelled. That was my brother. I shoved through bodies, ignoring the pain as elbows slammed into my ribs. Smoke clawed at my throat, thick and bitter, making my eyes water. The warehouse—Dock 19—was gone. Just rubble and fire and twisted steel where it once stood. That’s where my parents had been. “Mom!” My voice broke. “Dad!” No answer. I saw Jonah near the barricade, his face streaked with blood—not his, I realized dimly—his eyes wild. He grabbed me before I could rush forward. “Don’t,” he shouted over the chaos. “Sera, don’t—” “Let me go!” I fought him, panic tearing through me. “They’re in there!” “They pulled them out,” he said, his grip tightening. “Both of them. They’re alive. Barely.” The word barely crushed the air from my lungs. Alive. It was the only thing that kept my knees from buckling. The hospital smelled like antiseptic and despair. Bright lights buzzed overhead as stretchers flew past, nurses shouting codes, doctors barking orders that echoed down the hallways. Every sound felt sharp, invasive, like the world had turned hostile overnight. They wouldn’t let us see them at first. “Too critical,” a nurse said, already moving away. “Traumatic injuries. We’re doing what we can.” What you can isn’t enough, I wanted to scream. Hours passed. Or minutes. Time lost meaning somewhere between the waiting room chairs and the vending machine that swallowed Jonah’s last dollar without mercy. Mila sat beside me, silent. Too silent. My baby sister’s fingers twisted the hem of her hoodie over and over, a nervous habit she’d never outgrown. Her eyes were red, but she wasn’t crying anymore. That scared me more than tears. Finally, they let us in. Machines surrounded my parents like predators. Tubes everywhere—mouth, arms, chest—monitors beeping in slow, taunting rhythms. My mother’s hair was matted with blood. My father’s hands, the same hands that once lifted me onto his shoulders, lay limp at his sides. I stepped forward, my legs trembling. “They need surgery,” the doctor said, clipboard tucked under his arm, eyes clinical. Detached. “Both of them. Multiple internal injuries. Severe trauma.” “When?” Jonah asked. The doctor hesitated. That hesitation was a blade. “When payment is secured.” Silence. “What?” I whispered. “The procedures are expensive,” he continued smoothly. “Especially with the complications. Without a deposit, we can’t proceed.” “How much?” Jonah demanded. The number he said next made my vision blur. “That’s impossible,” I said. “They were injured at work. The company—” “Armando Industries has denied liability pending investigation,” the doctor interrupted. “Until then, the responsibility falls on the family.” Armando. The name tasted like poison. “You’re telling me,” Jonah said slowly, dangerously, “that you’re going to let them die if we don’t pay.” The doctor met his gaze without flinching. “I’m telling you how the system works.” Then he left. That night, something inside me cracked. I sat between my parents’ beds long after visiting hours ended, listening to the machines breathe for them. I held my mother’s cold hand and pressed my forehead to her arm, willing her to wake up. “I’ll fix this,” I whispered. “I swear.” But promises don’t pay medical bills. Jonah stood by the window, staring out at the city like he wanted to burn it down. Mila slept curled in a chair, exhaustion finally claiming her. “We don’t have that kind of money,” Jonah said quietly. “Not even close.” “I know.” “We could sell the apartment.” “It wouldn’t be enough.” He dragged a hand through his hair, frustration radiating off him. “I’ve called everyone. Loans, friends, charities. Nothing comes through fast enough.” Two days. That’s what the doctor had said earlier. Two days before complications turned fatal. I stared at my parents, then at the door, then at Jonah. “There’s another way,” I said. He turned slowly. “No.” “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.” “I know you,” he snapped. “And whatever it is, it’s stupid and dangerous.” I stood. My heart was steady now. Cold. Focused. “The Black Crown Syndicate,” I said. The words dropped between us like a bomb. Jonah’s face drained of color. “Absolutely not.” “They have slush accounts,” I continued. “Untraceable. Offshore. Hidden. Everyone knows it.” “They kill people for breathing near their territory.” “They also move billions illegally. One transfer. One account. That’s all we need.” Jonah laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You’re talking about robbing the most dangerous crime family on the East Coast.” “I’m talking about saving our parents.” “That’s suicide.” “So is doing nothing.” He stepped closer, towering over me. “You don’t understand what they do to people who cross them.” “I don’t care,” I said. And I meant it. Silence stretched. Finally, Jonah exhaled, defeated. “How?” That was when I knew he’d already lost. We didn’t sleep. By morning, we had a plan—rough, desperate, insane. Jonah had contacts. People who owed favors. People who knew people. Information came in pieces, stitched together with risk and lies. A charity gala. Syndicate-owned hotel. Temporary access to a private server room used during high-profile events. Security tight, but not flawless. The kind of opportunity that only existed for a few hours. “I’ll go,” I said immediately. “No,” Jonah said. “I will.” “You’re too recognizable. I blend in.” “You’re twenty.” “And you’re reckless.” Mila sat between us, quiet as always. “I can help,” she said softly. We both looked at her. “I’m good with systems,” she continued. “I can guide you remotely.” I hated it. But I nodded.