**Chapter 8: First Blood**
931 Words
The words sat on the screen like poison.
> **The sister dies next.**
Dominic’s fist tightened around the edge of the table. The screen cracked slightly under the pressure. He didn’t notice — or didn’t care.
Arianna stood beside him, reading the same message, eyes narrowed.
“This wasn’t meant to be subtle,” she said.
“No,” Dominic muttered, jaw clenched. “It’s bait.”
“They want a reaction.”
“They’ll get one.”
He turned from the screen and picked up his phone.
“Call in the dogs. We’re going hunting.”
Isabelle didn’t hear about the threat immediately.
Not because they were hiding it from her — not exactly — but because Dominic wasn’t sure how much more she could take. Not yet. Not after what she’d just learned about Gabriel.
But she *felt* the shift.
The estate bristled with tension. Guards moved faster. Doors that were once open were suddenly locked. Even the staff seemed to speak in hushed tones.
Something had cracked.
And the blood in the air wasn’t hers.
She found Luca in the east hallway, barking orders into a radio.
When he saw her, he gave her a look that wasn’t quite pity and wasn’t quite reassurance either.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
He hesitated. “Dominic didn’t tell you?”
Her silence was answer enough.
Luca sighed, then pulled a folded sheet of paper from his jacket.
Typed. Clean. Minimal.
He handed it to her without a word.
Isabelle read it once.
Twice.
By the third time, her fingers were shaking.
> **The sister dies next.**
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded when she stormed into Dominic’s office.
He didn’t look up from the weapons laid out on the desk — a 9mm, a sleek combat knife, a smaller, concealed pistol, all lined with precision.
“I didn’t want to distract you,” he said.
“I’m the target,” she snapped. “I *am* the distraction.”
He finally looked up.
“I was going to tell you. After I made sure you were safe.”
“Safe?” she repeated. “You think I feel safe with snipers on the roof and black roses on my altar?”
Dominic stepped toward her. “No. I don’t think you feel anything except fear right now. But that’s why you stay inside the estate. That’s why you don’t leave.”
“I’m not hiding, Dominic.”
“You *will* if I tell you to.”
Something in her snapped.
“I am not your prisoner.”
He leaned in close. “You’re my wife. That means you listen when I’m trying to keep you alive.”
The heat between them was volatile — rage and concern entangled like fire and fuel.
“I’m not helpless,” she said, her voice low. “And I’m not some porcelain doll you can lock in a tower.”
Dominic’s eyes darkened. “You’re not a doll. You’re bait.”
The words stunned her. He regretted them the second they left his mouth — but it was too late.
She stepped back like he’d struck her.
“I see,” she whispered. “You married me for leverage. For politics. And now that Valente wants me dead, I’m suddenly valuable in a different way — as a symbol. As bait. Something to dangle until someone takes the shot.”
Dominic’s silence said too much.
And not enough.
She didn’t cry.
Didn’t scream.
She simply turned and walked out.
That night, she didn’t sleep in their room.
She stayed in the chapel, curled up near the broken altar, Gabriel’s old ring in her hand — the one Dominic had given her earlier in the day, saying it had been recovered from the ruins after his death.
It was silver. Worn. The initials **G.R.** still etched on the inside.
She traced the letters over and over.
Trying to remember what his voice sounded like.
Trying to forget what it felt like to be hunted.
Meanwhile, Dominic sat in the war room, reviewing the latest intel.
Three of Valente’s known informants had surfaced in Staten Island — small-time enforcers, part of a front for a fake boxing club. Dominic dispatched two teams before midnight.
No more mercy.
No more messages.
If Valente wanted blood, Dominic would drown him in it.
By 2 a.m., Arianna returned with a flash drive.
“We’ve got him,” she said.
Dominic took it, plugged it into the screen.
Security footage. Dated twelve hours earlier.
A hooded figure placing a black rose on the chapel altar.
A second figure, waiting by the garden wall, holding a cell phone to his ear.
The image wasn’t clear — until the second man turned, just enough for the camera to catch part of his face.
Dominic froze.
Arianna’s voice was tight. “You recognize him?”
He nodded slowly.
“His name’s **Dimitri Vasov.** Eastern European gun-for-hire. Used to work under Gabriel… until Valente turned him.”
“And now he’s back?”
Dominic exhaled, his jaw locked. “Now he’s delivering messages.”
A pause.
Then Arianna said, “What do you want to do?”
Dominic didn’t hesitate.
“Kill the messenger.”
Two hours later, Dimitri Vasov was dead.
Shot in the head, body dumped in the Hudson.
The message returned.
First blood.
But the war had only just begun.
And Valente?
Valente *wanted* the blood.
Because every move Dominic made out of rage brought him one step closer to unraveling.
And Isabelle?
She was the thread.
- Writer
