Chapter 6
645 Words
Shadows of Bloodlines
Marcus’s apartment looked like a bunker for lost satellite cables crawling across the floor, three empty Red Bull cans lined like trophies, and screens stacked so high they bathed the room in a permanent glow. Aidan paced the narrow space like a caged animal, his boots thudding against old floorboards, the folder from Seraphina clutched so tightly in his hand it was starting to crumple.
“Tell me you’ve got something,” Aidan said, his voice edged, raw.
Marcus didn’t look up. His hoodie hung loose, eyes darting across screens as his fingers rattled the keyboard. “Man, I only just cracked the encryption on half of these files. Have you ever tried breaking into Moretti firewalls? They guard their secrets tighter than Area 51.”
“Cut the comedy, Marcus.”
Marcus finally glanced up, his expression softening at the sight of his friend’s clenched jaw. “Okay, okay. Look, I get it. You’re freaking out. But that’s all the more reason not to rush. One wrong click and this whole trail goes dark.”
He pulled up a photo on the largest monitor. Grainy. Black-and-white. The jawline was sharp, familiar. The eyes of Aidan.
Aidan froze.
“Family resemblance?” Marcus asked gently.
“Who is he?”
“Can’t pin a name yet. Records are sealed tighter than a nun’s diary, but whoever this guy is… he mattered. Enough for the Morettis to erase him from half a dozen registries.”
Aidan swallowed hard, his pulse hammering.
Behind him, the city lights spilled through Marcus’s cracked blinds, painting stripes across his tense frame.
Later that night, back at the penthouse, the balcony gleamed silver under the skyline. Seraphina stood at the railing, her robe cinched at the waist, her profile sharp against the glittering dark. She didn’t turn when Aidan stepped out.
“You went to Marcus,” she said simply.
“You were keeping tabs?”
“You wear your rage like cologne, Aidan. I didn’t need tabs.”
He moved beside her, bracing both hands on the rail. His voice was low, dangerous. “How much more are you hiding from me?”
Her throat worked. “More than you want. Less than you think.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No,” she admitted softly. “It’s not.”
The silence stretched, raw and jagged. For a second, her mask slipped, the sharp heiress softened, and beneath it, he saw fear. Not for herself. For him.
Then the glass door slid open.
Red stepped out, her copper curls glowing in the moonlight, leather jacket slung over one shoulder. She looked at both of them, tension heavy in the air, and let out a low whistle.
“Hell of a honeymoon,” she muttered.
Neither answered.
So she stepped closer, eyes narrowing on Seraphina. “Your father’s restless, Sera. He’s moving pieces. And when Don Moretti plays…” She shook her head. “He doesn’t leave survivors.
The next morning, the headlines hit.
“Trouble in Paradise: Moretti Heiress and Street Husband Clash at Gala.”
“Newlyweds or Foes? Seraphina and Aidan Spotte in Heated Argument.”
The glossy magazines lay scattered on the kitchen island. Aidan slammed one shut, veins tight in his hand.
“Say something,” he demanded.
Seraphina, flawless in cream silk and lipstick already set for the day, sipped her coffee instead. “You wanted real, Aidan? Congratulations. Now the whole world thinks so too.”
The words cut sharper than she intended.
Aidan’s stare lingered, fury boiling with something he couldn’t name.
The fire between them wasn’t dying. It was only getting hotter.
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