Blood Before His Kisses

Chapter 1

Giada Vendetta Belucci Rosetti

I woke to the sound of my maids. They roused me to dress, filing into my room one by one like a silent procession.

The first carried a tray of black stilettos, six-inch blades disguised as heels. The second held velvet cases of diamonds and onyx, cold enough to cut. The third wheeled in a luxury garment rack, steel frame glinting under the chandelier, draped with couture. Dresses worth more than most people’s houses, all black, all mine.

Gosh. I actually wanted to sleep in.

I’m sitting now, silk sheets pooled around me, hair a mess I don’t care to fix. The head maid approaches, head bowed but eyes sharp. She knows better than to touch me without permission. In this house, even waking me up is a calculated risk.

“Ma’am,” the head maid’s voice barely rose above a whisper, her knuckles white around the edge of the garment rack.

“It’s time to choose your attire. Breakfast has been laid out downstairs, prepared exactly to your preferences, as you instructed last night.”

She didn’t look up. None of them ever did unless I allowed it. The tray of stilettos trembled slightly in the younger maid’s hands.

Good. Fear keeps people efficient.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, black silk sliding off like spilled ink. My hair was a mess, but I’ve ended men for less than staring too long at it.

“You sound like you’re delivering a ransom note, Anya. Relax. I haven’t killed anyone before breakfast… this week.”

Anya flinched. That was her name. Anya. Dad hired her because she survived three other families. That meant something in our world.

“I choose that one,” I said, pointing without looking. “Floor-length black satin dress. Thigh-high slit. Pair it with the sharp tailored black blazer, the one with the Dior buttons. Six-inch black stilettos. Not the Louboutins. The ones that sound like gunshots on marble.”

“Yes, Signorina Vendetta,” Anya murmured. Only the staff used my middle name. It reminded them who signed their paychecks… and who could stop them.

“Black sunglasses. The big ones. And my black Lady Dior, the medium, not the mini. I might need to fit something in it later. Something that doesn’t like to be folded.” Her throat bobbed. She knew what that meant. She always knew.

“I’m heading down,” I continued, standing. The movement made all three maids take a half-step back in perfect sync. Choreographed fear.

“Leave what I picked. Touch nothing else. If I find one fingerprint on my vanity, I’ll know. And if I know, Dad knows.”

“Of course, ma’am. Will you—”

“I won’t repeat myself, Anya.” My voice dropped, cold enough to frost the chandelier. “That’s your job. Remember it.”

I didn’t wait for her to bow. I was already walking to the ensuite, each step barefoot on black-veined marble that cost more than her village.

Behind me, I heard the soft click of Anya’s heels as she exhaled. Only when my bathroom door shut did the room breathe again.

Everything in here is black — walls, fixtures, even the water in the onyx sink looks dark. It matches my mood. Matches my name. Dad raised me a spoiled brat with a body count, taught me respect was optional but reputation was law. I kept the first lesson. Burned the second.

I descend the grand marble staircase like it owes me taxes. Every click of my six-inch stilettos on black-veined stone is a gunshot, and this whole damn mansion flinches.

This isn’t a house. It’s a kingdom. Villa Rosetti. A palatial monster that makes castles look like guest houses. It doesn’t whisper old money, it spits it in your face, dares you to count it, then reminds you none of it will ever be yours.

Vaulted ceilings dripping with gold-leaf crown molding. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen lightning, waiting to strike anyone stupid enough to look up at me wrong. Floors of black-veined marble polished so clean I can see my own killing smile in them.

Floor to ceiling windows smothered in heavy black velvet, hiding manicured gardens and a fountain that never shuts up. Good. Noise covers screams.

The air reeks of leather, aged whiskey, and white lilies Dad orders by the truckload to hide the smell of blood money. Onyx tables, gilded mirrors, a fireplace big enough to burn bodies in, all polished by hands that shake when I enter a room.

Silent security cameras tucked into baroque frames. They don’t watch the house. They watch for me. A grand piano nobody touches. It’s not for music. It’s for display. Like me.

This place doesn’t suggest wealth. It declares war. Cold. Imposing. Untouchable. The kind of house where empires are carved, men disappear, and contracts are signed in red.

No one raises their voice here.

Except me.

I’m Giada Vendetta Bellucci Rosetti. Daddy’s spoiled little problem. And in Villa Rosetti, my tantrums have a death toll.

I slide into the chair across from Dad at the long onyx dining table. Even at his age, he’s still lethal-looking. Silver at his temples, suit pressed sharp as a blade, coffee in one hand, the morning paper in the other. No wonder women still throw themselves at him. Stupid. He’s not husband material. He’s a kill switch in Brioni.

“Detta,” he says without looking up, voice calm enough to make generals sweat. “We leave today. Philippines. I have unfinished business. And don’t worry, we’re staying at Casa Vendetta.”

He finally glances at me. Ice-blue eyes, same as mine. Same as the marble under my heels. “And don’t be too much of a brat when we’re there. Follow my orders. To the letter. Understand?”

I understand perfectly. I know exactly what happens when I don’t. Dad is charming. Dad is generous. Dad also built his empire on people who thought they could test him twice. There is no twice.

He disciplines with precision, not rage — which makes it worse. Last time I disobeyed, he cut my cards and confined me to my room for a week. It was… educational. That’s why I’m unshakable now. That’s why he trusts me with a Glock, an AR, a Sig. That’s why I can disarm a man twice my size before he blinks.

Because I’m his daughter. His heir. He’s molding me into something worse than him. To the world, I’m just Giada the spoiled brat, tantrums, designer fits, daddy’s money. That’s the mask he designed. Innocent, entitled, useless. It’s armor. If anyone ever tries to take me, they’ll underestimate the girl who can put three rounds through a target at 50 meters and then order room service.

But Dad won’t let them try.

I nod, slicing into my wagyu like it insulted my mother. Then I look up, batting my lashes. Weaponized innocence. “Dad, can we take the private jet? Last time we flew commercial to another country… it was traumatizing for me.”

I don’t elaborate. He knows. Crowds. Cameras. People thinking they can look at me. Touch me. It ended badly. For them.

Dad sets his paper down. A ghost of a smirk touches his mouth, the one that means someone’s about to lose something.

“Yes, my dear princess,” he says, tone dripping with dark honey.

“My jet. My rules. My daughter doesn’t fly with cattle.”

He stands, buttons his jacket. The dining room goes colder. “Wheels up in two hours. Pack light, Detta. But pack lethal. Manila isn’t Milan. And the Rossetti’s don’t land unarmed.”

He walks past me, hand brushing my shoulder. It’s not affection. It’s a reminder. A leash I can’t see but always feel.

“Yes, Papa,” I say, sweet as arsenic.

Because in Casa Vendetta, obedience isn’t love.

It’s survival. And I intend to survive everything.