Beneath his Bloodline

The lights were too bright for a room that held so much darkness. Chandeliers dripped crystals like frozen tears above the velvet-draped gallery, and shadows danced along the marbled floor as masked men and jeweled women whispered behind their flutes of champagne. They weren’t here to celebrate. They were here to claim. To own. To possess. Alessia Romano stood at the edge of the crimson stage, her breath trembling like the hem of her silk dress. Her wrists bore delicate cuffs, more ornamental than binding, yet their message was clear. She wasn’t a guest. She was the prize. This wasn’t a regular auction. No art. No jewels. No vintage wine. It was the kind of sale whispered about in corridors and silenced in blood. "Lot Seven," the auctioneer announced, voice as smooth as poison, "Alessia Romano. Eighteen. Virgin. Pure-blood daughter of the Romano dynasty. A rare gem. Starting bid: one million." Gasps rippled. Phones clicked open. Cards were raised. Alessia’s heart pounded so loudly she thought it might echo through the speakers. She searched the masked crowd, trying to find a familiar face. Her father had told her she’d be attending a charity event. He never mentioned she was the donation. "Two million." "Three." "Four." The numbers climbed like flames, and with each bid, Alessia’s hope crumbled. Until the room fell silent. "Ten million," a deep voice cut through the crowd like a blade. The room stilled. The crowd parted instinctively, like prey sensing a predator. A tall man stepped forward from the shadows at the back of the gallery, dressed in a black suit that clung to his frame like smoke. No mask. No need. Everyone already knew who he was. Lorenzo De Luca. Head of the Bratva. The Devil in Armani. Cold. Calculated. Cruel. And now, apparently, a bidder. Alessia’s breath caught in her throat. Her eyes locked onto his. Steel grey. Unmoving. Unforgiving. She had heard stories—whispers of the man who carved his path to power through blood and betrayal. But none of them mentioned how devastatingly beautiful he was. Or how terrifying. The auctioneer hesitated, then nodded. "Ten million, going once—" "Fifteen," came a shaky voice from the left. Lorenzo didn’t even flinch. He took a single step forward. One. That was all it took. The other bidder sat down. The auctioneer swallowed. "Fifteen million, going once… going twice…" A pause. "Sold." The gavel hit the podium, and the sound ricocheted through Alessia’s bones. Just like that, she was his. She didn’t speak on the way to the car. The black Rolls-Royce waited outside like a hearse. Lorenzo opened the door himself, not like a gentleman—but like someone who didn’t trust his driver not to stare too long. She slid in silently, her body trembling with silent questions. "Why?" she asked, finally, her voice barely more than a whisper. Lorenzo leaned back, watching her with eyes that didn’t blink. "Because your father owed me something he couldn’t pay. And now, I own what he cherishes most." Her stomach twisted. "I’m not an object." His smile was cold. "You are now." Back at the estate—his estate—she was led to a room that looked more like a royal suite than a prison. But the lock on the inside of the door said otherwise. She stood in front of the mirror, hands pressed to the marble sink. Her reflection stared back: pale cheeks, tear-streaked lashes, and fear. "You will not break," she whispered to herself. "You will not cry. Not for him. Not for anyone." But her voice cracked on the last word. And far down the hall, behind layers of luxury and locked doors, Lorenzo sat in his study, swirling a glass of red wine. He hadn’t bought her