GAME OF BLOOD

The night Aria Moretti buried her father, it rained like the world knew something wicked had just been unleashed. She stood under a sea of black umbrellas, her stilettos sinking into the wet grass, mascara running in perfect streaks down her cheekbones. Around her, men in suits and women in veils whispered condolences they didn’t mean. But Aria didn’t hear any of it. She was staring at the casket—oak, polished, and cold—being lowered into the ground with the kind of care reserved for kings. And that’s exactly what Lorenzo Moretti had been. King of the underground. Head of one of the most feared mafia families on the East Coast. Billionaire. Father. Ghost. And now, all of it—his empire, his enemies, his secrets—was hers. “Miss Moretti,” a voice cut through the fog of her thoughts. “It’s time.” She nodded once, swallowing the lump in her throat. She hadn’t cried. Not once. Not when the police found his body in that penthouse suite. Not when the press splashed headlines like Mafia Tycoon Dead in Mystery Hit across every outlet. Not even when her uncle tried to tell her it was a suicide. She knew better. Lorenzo Moretti didn’t kill himself. Someone had murdered her father. And she was going to find out who. As the mourners dispersed, her driver opened the back door of the black Rolls Royce waiting by the curb. She stepped inside, cold fingers wrapping around the leather strap of her purse, heart pounding beneath her designer coat. “Where to, Miss?” the driver asked. She hesitated. Then said, “The Penthouse.” A pause. “Are you sure?” “I need to see where it happened.” --- The Moretti Penthouse sat at the top of a 70-story skyscraper in Manhattan, overlooking the city like it owned it. The elevator ride up was silent, except for the faint hum of electricity and Aria’s heartbeat in her ears. When the doors opened, everything smelled like bleach and death. The place had been cleaned—professionally—but some things couldn’t be scrubbed away. Blood still lingered in the air like a whisper. The marble floors were spotless, but she could almost see the outline where he’d fallen. A shattered glass of bourbon, a dropped phone, a life ended too quickly. She stepped farther in, heels echoing like gunshots. “Didn’t expect to see you here.” The voice stopped her cold. It was deep, velvety, and laced with danger. She turned slowly, already knowing who it was. Damien Rivas. The man no one dared cross. The billionaire cartel heir who built his empire off blood and silence. And the last person her father spoke to before he died. He was leaning against the bar, a half-filled glass in his hand, dressed in black from head to toe like sin incarnate. No tie. Shirt unbuttoned at the throat. No apology in his eyes—just a quiet storm. “You have some f*****g nerve,” Aria said, her voice like steel wrapped in silk. “I’ve been called worse.” He took a sip, watching her over the rim. “Nice funeral. Touching.” “You weren’t invited.” “I don’t wait for invitations.” She crossed the room slowly, every step deliberate. “Did you kill him?” A small smile curled on his lips. “If I did, I wouldn’t admit it in his house. Or to his daughter.” “Then why are you here?” He finished his drink, set the glass down with a soft clink. “To pay my respects.” Aria let out a bitter laugh. “Respects? You hated him.” Damien pushed off the bar and walked toward her with the confidence of a man who owned everything he touched—including the air between them. “He was a son of a b***h. But he was powerful. Smart. Ruthless. I respected that.” She tilted her chin, refusing to flinch. “And now he’s gone. Convenient for you.” His eyes darkened. “You think I pulled the trigger?” “I think you wanted to.” He stepped closer. “Wanting and doing are two different things.” Their eyes locked—hers burning with grief and fury, his unreadable. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that single thread of tension between them, pulled tight and electric. “You should leave,” she whispered. “And miss watching the princess take the throne?” he murmured. “Not a chance.” She slapped him. The sound cracked through the air. His jaw turned slightly with the impact, but he didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. Instead, he smiled. And that was somehow worse. “You’ve got fire, Aria,” he said softly. “But you’ll need more than that if you want to survive in his world.” His world. Not hers. Not yet. “You don’t know me,” she spat. “I know you’ve never had blood on your hands. Not real blood.” He leaned down, voice a whisper of smoke. “But you will. Soon.” And just like that, he turned and walked out—leaving silence and chaos in his wake. --- That night, Aria stood on the balcony, city lights glowing beneath her feet, wind pulling at her hair. Her phone buzzed. A blocked number. She answered. A distorted voice whispered: “You’re next.” The line went dead. Aria stared into the darkness. Her father’s enemies were coming for her. The vultures were circling. And Damien Rivas was already playing his game. But what they didn’t know—what no one knew—was that Aria Moretti wasn’t just here to survive. She was here to win. Let the game begin.