Blood Price

Leona Vale knew something was wrong the moment the driver took the left turn instead of the right. She still stayed calm, maybe it’s a different route she guess, but still decided to ask. She sat straighter in the back seat of the black SUV, fingers tightening around her leather purse. “Marco,” she said, forcing her voice calm, “this isn’t the way to the gallery.” The man didn’t answer. His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, then back to the road. The sun had begun to set, casting long shadows over the narrow Sicilian road twisting away from the city. “Marco,” she repeated, sharper this time. “Where are we going?” Still nothing. But the locks clicked shut. And that was when her fear stopped being quiet, she yelled at Marco, but no response was heard. “Stop the car.” She reached for the door. Pulled. Nothing. “Stop the goddamn car!” The SUV sped up, so fast like they were going to crash. Leona’s heart thundered. She slammed her hand against the tinted window, yelling now. But the road was empty. No witnesses. No hope. Minutes passed. Or hours. She couldn’t tell. She tried her phone. Dead. Not dead—disconnected. By the time the villa came into view, perched on a cliffside like a dark crown above the sea, she already knew who was behind this. There was only one man who could buy silence like this. One man whose name haunted whispers and courtrooms alike. The one man who ruled the Mafia world. Raefael Moretti. The car rolled through the iron gates and came to a stop beneath a columned entrance. The door opened before she could react, and a man in a suit offered his hand. She slapped it away and climbed out herself. Her heels clicked on stone as she stepped forward, fists clenched. “What the hell is this?” She barked!! No answer. Just a nod toward the open doors. She was led through marble halls, past rooms that smelled of old money and darker secrets, until they stopped outside a heavy door. One knock. Then silence. The door flung open. Raefael Moretti stood by the window, bathed in the golden spill of dying sunlight. He looked younger than the photos. Early thirties, tall, built like he didn’t have to lift a finger but chose to anyway. His shirt was black, sleeves rolled, his watch glinting under the cuff. He turned, slowly. And when his eyes landed on her—cold, assessing—Leona felt something shift inside her. Something dangerous. Something curious. “You’re early,” he said. With a dangerously stern smile. She stared at him. “You kidnapped me.” He smiled, faintly. “I retrieved you Leona . There’s a difference.” Leona stepped forward, fire rising in her blood. “My father will—” “Do nothing,” he interrupted, pouring himself a drink. “Because your father no longer holds leverage in this game.” She laughed, bitter and sharp. “And I do?” Raefael sipped. “Not yet. But soon.” He moved behind a mahogany desk, motioning for her to sit. She didn’t. “I’m not playing this game, Raefael,” she said, folding her arms. “I’m not some princess you can parade around like a trophy.” “No,” he agreed, “you’re not. You’re a bargaining chip. And unfortunately for you, you’re also the only thing your father still values.” Silence stretched. Tight and thick. She swallowed the knot rising in her throat. “He sent me here?” Raefael’s eyes gleamed. “He gave you up. In exchange for time.” Leona felt the floor tilt beneath her. “My father would never—” “Your father traded guns for gold and then bet it all on lies,” he said, voice like smoke. “You’re here because debt has a price. And unlike him… I collect.” He moved toward her then, slow and deliberate. Leona held her ground. He stopped inches away, gaze dropping to her lips, then rising again. “But don’t worry,” he murmured. “I won’t hurt you. That’s not how I operate.” “Then why take me?” Why? Raefael leaned close enough that she caught the faint scent of leather and clove. “Because war is loud. But leverage,” he whispered, “leverage is quiet.” She slapped him, not a subtle one, but one with anger and frustration. It echoed across the room. Raefael didn’t flinch. He didn’t retaliate. He simply looked at her, like a man measuring the weight of a weapon. Then—he smiled. And that was worse,it didn’t satisfy how she felt. She was escorted to a room—no, a suite. Marble bathroom. Silk sheets. A view of the sea. This wasn’t a dungeon. It was a cage of luxury. She paced the space, the slap still burning on her palm. He wanted her afraid. Off-balance. But fear wasn’t Leona’s language. Survival was. She would find his weakness. Exploit it. End this. She wasn’t her father. She didn’t play by his rules. That night, as darkness wrapped the villa in silence, Leona stood at the window, arms crossed, watching the waves crash against the cliffside. A storm was coming. Not outside. Not from the sea. It was already here,very close that she could feel it. And she was standing at the eye of it.