Chapter Ten – Ashes and Oaths
902 Words
(Dual POV: Isabella + Damian)
Isabella
Madrid smelled of smoke and rain.
Every corner of the old city felt heavy with ghosts — and every step closer to the truth made her heart ache more. She and Damian had been running for days, sleeping in safehouses, trading names and favors to track down the one thing her mother’s letter had promised: the files.
Now, standing inside the abandoned De Luca estate, she could almost hear the echoes of what had been taken from her.
The mansion was a ruin — fire-scarred, hollowed, but not forgotten.
Damian moved beside her, flashlight cutting through the dust.
“Are you sure this is it?” he asked.
She nodded, brushing her fingers over a half-burnt portrait on the wall. The plaque read Rafael De Luca, 1983.
Her throat tightened. “He looks like you.”
Damian froze. “Don’t.”
“I’m serious. The eyes, the jawline…”
He turned away. “He’s not my blood.”
But his voice cracked just enough to betray the lie.
They searched in silence, the air thick with ash and memory, until Isabella found it — a loose panel beneath the grand piano. She knelt, prying it open. Inside, wrapped in plastic, lay a folder marked Moretti – De Luca Accord.
Her hands trembled as she passed it to Damian.
He opened it.
And the truth screamed from the pages.
Damiano Moretti, son of Don Matteo Moretti.
Adopted following the 1997 Accord between the Moretti and De Luca families to end the vendetta.
Original birth father: Rafael De Luca.
“No…” Damian whispered. “No.”
He dropped the file. Paper scattered like dying birds.
“I wasn’t his son,” he said, eyes wild. “I was leverage.”
“Damian—”
“He took me. He took me from my real father, raised me to kill his enemies—my own bloodline!” His voice broke, fists slamming into the piano until the strings shrieked.
Isabella rushed to him, grabbing his face, forcing him to look at her.
“You are not him!” she cried. “You are not your father’s monster. You’re the man who saved me, who chose me—”
He looked at her like she was the only thing keeping him human.
And maybe she was.
Damian
The world had tilted, and all that was left was her.
He had spent his life building walls of steel — loyalty, revenge, silence — and she had torn through all of it. Now he wasn’t sure whether to thank her or hate her for it.
He kissed her like a man drowning, needing something real to hold onto.
And she kissed him back with fire, with forgiveness, with everything he thought he didn’t deserve.
When they broke apart, she whispered, “What now?”
He smiled bitterly. “Now we burn what’s left.”
They poured gasoline through the hallways, the papers, the lies — all of it. Flames rose fast, devouring the legacy of hate.
But before they could leave, Damian’s phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A video.
He played it.
A dim room. A chair.
Luca — alive, beaten but breathing.
And behind him, a shadow stepped into view.
Don Matteo Moretti.
Not dead. Not a ghost. Alive.
“You’ve done well, figlio mio,” the Don’s voice rumbled through the speakers.
“You found what I wanted you to find. Now come home. Bring her with you. The family reunion isn’t complete without my children.”
The feed cut.
Damian’s hand shook. “He’s alive.”
Isabella’s heart pounded. “He wants us to come to him.”
He looked at her. “He won’t stop until we do.”
“Then what do we do?”
He met her eyes. “We end this. Together.”
Isabella
They walked away from the burning mansion hand in hand, the flames reflected in Damian’s dark eyes like a promise and a curse.
He stopped at the gates, turning to her. “If we go after him, there’s no coming back.”
She smiled sadly. “Then we make sure he doesn’t either.”
He brushed a strand of hair from her face, whispering, “You’re not afraid?”
“I am,” she said softly. “But I’m more afraid of losing you.”
For a heartbeat, time froze — the smoke swirling, the night whispering with danger and desire.
Then he pulled her close. “No matter what happens,” he said, voice breaking, “you run if I tell you to.”
She shook her head. “Not this time.”
They disappeared into the night, the world behind them burning to ash.
Ahead — only darkness.
And waiting inside that darkness, the devil who called himself father.
Final Scene (Cliffhanger for Book 2)
Somewhere in Rome, inside an underground wine cellar lit by candlelight, Don Matteo Moretti poured himself a glass of red wine.
He smiled at the photograph on the table — Isabella and Damian, walking away from the fire.
Beside him, Luca knelt, chains clinking.
“Do you see now, my son?” the Don murmured. “Love makes them weak. Blood makes them blind. And both… belong to me.”
He lifted the glass.
“Let the bloodline begin again.”
The camera panned over a sealed envelope marked Operation Resurrection.
Fade to black.
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