ASHES AND OATHS : A MAFIA LOVE STORY (BOOK 1)

Chapter Three (Part 1) – Blood in the Market

(Isabella’s POV)

Barcelona woke to the scent of oranges, espresso, and rain-soaked stone. But for me, morning came with a strange heaviness — the kind that only follows a night spent running from death.

The warehouse Damian had taken me to was cold, windowless, and smelled faintly of salt and rust. I didn’t remember falling asleep, only the sound of his low voice outside, muffled by the storm.

When I woke, he was gone.

For a second, panic gripped me — until I noticed the folded note on the table.

“Stay here. Don’t open the door for anyone but me.”

— D.

Of course, I ignored it.

By noon, my phone was vibrating with messages from Miguel. “Where the hell are you?” — “The conference fallout is huge!” — “They’re saying Moretti disappeared after a shooting!”

I should’ve been hiding. But curiosity — that reckless instinct that had always gotten me into trouble — was stronger than fear.

I found the nearest metro station and headed toward La Boqueria Market. Crowded, noisy, alive — the kind of place where I could lose myself among strangers. Or so I thought.

The market was chaos in color: stalls of fruit piled high, tourists snapping photos, the smell of fried calamari mixing with perfume and heat. For a while, I almost forgot the envelope, the blood, the bullets.

Almost.

Then I saw him.

Damian.

He was across the street, speaking to a man in a navy coat. His posture was tense, his eyes scanning the crowd like a predator checking for traps.

Something in me froze. He wasn’t supposed to find me — not this easily. But when his gaze met mine, I saw it — a flicker of both relief and fury.

He started toward me.

“Isabella!” His voice cut through the crowd. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Looking for answers!” I shot back.

“Not here.” His jaw tightened. “You have no idea what—”

The words died on his lips as the man in the navy coat reached inside his jacket.

Everything happened in seconds.

Damian grabbed me, pulling me down just as the first shot rang out. Screams erupted. People scattered, fruit crates overturned, glass shattered.

“Get down!” he barked, dragging me behind a fish stall. Another bullet whizzed past, splintering a wooden beam.

My heart thundered in my ears. I could smell the sea, the fear, the gunpowder.

He pressed a gun into my shaking hand — cold metal, heavy, alien.

“Hold this.”

“What? I—”

“Just do it!” he growled, peeking out from cover and firing twice.

A man fell near the fountain, his gun clattering to the ground. But more figures moved in — two, three, maybe more.

“Damian!” I gasped. “They’re everywhere!”

“I know.” His voice was calm, terrifyingly calm. “We need to move.”

He took my wrist, pulling me through the crowd, past overturned tables and screaming vendors. My legs burned as we ran. Every shot echoed too close.

We dove into a side alley, the narrow passage swallowing us whole. He pressed me against the wall, his breath ragged, his eyes burning into mine.

“You disobeyed me.”

“I’m not your prisoner.”

“No,” he said darkly, “but you’re in my war now.”