Blood Before His Kisses

Chapter 2

A few minutes later, breakfast was over. Dad’s words still hung in the air like smoke from a silenced shot: Wheels up in two hours. Pack lethal.

I pushed back from the onyx table without a word. The chair didn’t scrape — even the furniture in Villa Rosetti knows better than to make noise when I move. My stilettos hit the black-veined marble and the whole hallway listened. Every chandelier, every gilded mirror, every camera tucked in baroque frames tracked me as I ascended the grand staircase. This mansion breathes when I tell it to.

I reached my room and slammed the double doors. The sound echoed like a verdict. We have maids. An army of them. But nobody touches my things. Not my clothes. Not my drawers. Not my life. The last girl who “helped” me pack found her severance package in the form of a one-way ticket back to her village. Dad calls it discipline. I call it hygiene.

I yanked my matte-black case from the walk-in. It doesn’t roll — it hunts. Custom carbon-fiber shell, edges sharp enough to cut if you grip it wrong. The interior is lined in blood-red suede just to remind me what we do for a living.

First went the dresses. Two of them. My favorites. Both floor-length, both backless, both slit so high my thigh becomes a threat. One is liquid silk that clings like guilt. The other is structured satin with a neckline that dares men to look down and die. Dior didn’t make these for runways. They made them for funerals. Mine or someone else’s.

Then four sets of sleepwear. Black, always black. Not lace for seduction — lace for strangulation. Silk cut like armor. If anyone’s stupid enough to wake me, the last thing they’ll see is expensive and fatal.

The essentials came next, each placed with the same care Dad taught me to handle everything dangerous. The platinum card slid in first. No name, no limit, no mercy. Dad’s accountant cries every time I swipe it, and I call that sound my lullaby. Right beside it went my sunglasses — oversized, black, lenses dark as my mood. They hide my eyes because my eyes sign death warrants my mouth doesn’t have to say out loud.

I tucked in my Lady Dior after that. Medium, structured, with hardware that could crack a jaw and still look good at brunch. It’s not a purse. It’s a bludgeon with a designer logo, and it’s seen more threats than most men. Last was my scent. White lilies drowned in something metallic. It smells like a church after a hit. People step back before they know why, and that’s exactly how I like it.

Then the other things. The ones that live in the shadows of my luggage. The ones Dad trained me to respect before I could drive. Two pieces of compact, unforgiving weight went into the velvet wraps. They don’t have names in this house. They have purposes. I’ve known their weight since I was twelve. I know their voice better than lullabies. Dad says they’re for protection. I say they’re for punctuation.

Four blades followed. Slim as secrets. No longer than my palm, balanced like lies. They don’t reflect light — they swallow it. They slide where I tell them to, and they never ask questions. And finally, my hairpin. Black titanium. From the front, it’s Fashion Week. From the back, it’s a coroner’s report. It sits in my chignon like a coiled snake. Pretty. Patient. Venomous.

I laid everything into the custom compartments Dad had built into the case. No clink. No rattle. Just the muffled whisper of violence packed between couture. Everything has its place. Everything has its purpose. Just like me.

I zipped it shut. One pull. Clean. Final. The sound a courtroom makes when the gavel hits.

Dad handles travel. That’s not a statement — it’s law. He doesn’t book flights. He summons them. Runways clear when his name hits the tower. Customs doesn’t inspect Rosetti luggage. It apologizes to it. The jet waits like a loyal dog with wings, fueled, iced, and silent, because the world knows better than to keep him waiting.

Passports, manifests, clearance codes — all of it bends around his signature like metal to a magnet. In our family, borders are suggestions and airspace is property. When Dad says we fly, the sky becomes a private road. And today, that road leads to Manila. The city isn’t ready. But then again, no one ever is when a Rosetti lands.

I soaked in the black marble tub until the water went cold and my skin looked like it was carved from ice. Steam clung to the gold-leaf ceiling like a confession. When I finally stood, water sluiced off me like the house was bleeding luxury.

I wrapped myself in the bathrobe — heavy black silk with my initials stitched in obsidian thread. For a minute I just stared at the mirror. f**k. If I were a man, I’d stalk myself. High cheekbones, ice-blue eyes, lips built for both kisses and kill orders. I look innocent. Pretty. Soft. That’s the trick. Nobody guesses my last name is a death sentence. Nobody sees the bloodline until it’s already on their hands. But my presence? My presence doesn’t lie. It announces me before I speak.

I dressed in what I picked this morning. Black on black on black. Dress that hugs like a threat, slit high enough to run or to ruin someone’s day. Blazer sharp enough to cut glass. Six-inch heels that sound like gunshots on marble. Sunglasses big enough to hide sins. I checked the mirror one last time. Dangerous? Yes. But still Daddy’s little princess. The kind you don’t say no to unless you have a death wish.

I descended the grand staircase. Below, the maids were lined up in perfect formation, heads bowed, hands clasped. My rule. I don’t ask for respect — I stage it. I want to be a queen, so I make the world my court.

Dad was already outside, silhouette framed by the sun like he owned it. Before I stepped past the threshold, I turned and smirked at the row of staff. “You bitches can breathe now,” I called out, voice sweet and venomous. “The queen has left the building.”

Their relief was audible. Good. Fear should have an echo.

Hours later, we landed in the Philippines. The heat hit the tarmac like a slap, but it was home. Real home. Casa Vendetta. Dad and I lived here since I could walk. This place holds every happy memory I have of Mom — her laugh in the garden, her hands braiding my hair by the fountain, her perfume mixed with white lilies in the hallways.

Until one bad memory bled over all of it.

I was six. Enemy crews stormed the gates while Dad was in a meeting. I remember the sound — glass, screams, gunfire stitched into the air. I saw it. Mom. She stepped between me and them. She didn’t even flinch. One second she was smiling at me, the next she was on the floor, red blooming across her white dress. I don’t remember the killer’s face. Trauma takes faces. But I remember his arm. Left arm. Black dragon tattoo, scales crawling up to his elbow, mouth open like it was eating him. Dad’s been hunting that dragon for thirteen years. So have I.

Now I’m nineteen. And I still see her in every corner of this house.

The drive from the private airstrip to Casa Vendetta took hours. Manila blurred past — jeepneys, heat, chaos — until the gates appeared. Wrought iron, twelve feet high, with the Rosetti crest welded in gold. It’s still beautiful. Still bloody. We left years ago, but Dad never abandoned it. He stationed men here. Maids. Gardeners. Guards with eyes like hawks and triggers lighter than whispers. Because this wasn’t just a house. It was Mom’s. It was the last place she laughed. We don’t let memories rot.

We stepped out and the sun tried to punish me for leaving. Joke’s on it. I expected this. A maid was already at my side with a black parasol, blocking the light like I was a vampire with a body count. I slid my shades off slowly, letting the staff see my eyes. Ice-blue. Dad’s eyes. Let them remember who’s back.

The maids were lined up again, just like in Milan. Heads down, welcoming us home. Dad didn’t wait. He walked, and the world parted. That’s what men like him do — they don’t walk on earth, earth moves for them.

I lingered for a second. Looked around. So much changed. New scars on the walls. Bullet marks painted over but not forgotten. The fountain still ran, but the water sounded heavier. Still, f**k — it was gorgeous. Open. Airy. The kind of place that could hide a hundred sins and still smell like lilies.

I exhaled.

Finally. I’m home. Casa Vendetta. My true home.

You can rest now, Mom. Really rest. The little girl who hid behind your skirt is gone. She died with you on that marble floor thirteen years ago.

What’s left is me — Giada Vendetta Bellucci Rosetti.

Daddy’s bullet with lipstick. Your blood in my veins and his war in my bones. I’ve trained every day since they took you. I can strip, clean, and reload before most men finish praying. I can put a blade between ribs and still order champagne after.

I remember the dragon on that arm, Mom. I dream about it. Scales, teeth, and all.

And I swear on your grave, on your white dress, on the last breath you used to scream my name — I will find him. I will make him look me in the eyes while I give him back every second you suffered.

So sleep, Mama. No more nightmares. No more watching over me. Your daughter grew teeth.

And she’s home now.