Blood & Vows

The chandeliers dripped golden light onto the marble floors of the Marcelli estate, each shimmer reflecting in the sea of masked faces swirling across the grand ballroom. Laughter floated through the air like champagne bubbles, sweet and fleeting, hiding the sharp undercurrent of politics and secrets beneath. Ivy Marcelli adjusted the delicate silver mask perched on her face, its edges trimmed with glittering gems. Her gown—a slip of silk the color of midnight—clung to her like a second skin, and every man she passed let his gaze linger a moment too long. She hated these events. Hated the way she was paraded like an asset, a bargaining chip in her father’s endless web of alliances. Still, Ivy had learned long ago that appearances were everything. Smile. Dance. Obey. Then vanish back into the shadows where she could breathe. Tonight, however, something in the air felt different. Heavier. The music thrummed a little too fast, the smiles a little too sharp. She noticed it in the way her father tightened his hand on the glass of bourbon, in the way bodyguards circled the perimeter more closely than usual. A storm was coming. Ivy could feel it in her bones. She stepped onto the terrace for air, the cool night brushing against her flushed skin. Beyond the manicured gardens, the world blurred into darkness—starkly contrasting the glittering lie behind her. She gripped the stone railing, savoring a moment of solitude. That was when she heard it. A footfall. Too soft for a guest. Too certain for a servant. Instinct flared inside her chest. She turned, heart pounding, just in time to see a shadow detach itself from the deeper gloom. A man, tall and dressed in a simple black suit with no mask to hide the sharp planes of his face. His eyes—dark as a midnight storm—locked onto hers. "Don’t scream," he said quietly as if it were a casual greeting. Ivy didn’t scream. She was her father's daughter, after all. Instead, she spun on her heel and ran, her heels snapping against the stone in frantic staccato. She didn’t make it far. A strong arm looped around her waist, lifting her clean off the ground. She kicked, twisted, and fought with every ounce of strength she had—but he was immovable, like iron forged in human form. "Put me down!" she hissed, digging her nails into his wrist. "I’d rather not," he murmured, and with terrifying ease, he carried her down a flight of servants’ stairs hidden behind the terrace wall. Panic surged. She shouted then, for help, for anyone—but the gala music swallowed her cries. Within seconds, they slipped into the darkness of a waiting car, its door thrown open like the mouth of a beast. "Drive," the man ordered. The world tilted as Ivy was shoved onto the leather seats. The door slammed shut, sealing her fate. Tires screeched against cobblestone, and the Marcelli estate became nothing but a glittering memory shrinking in the distance. Ivy scrambled up, glaring daggers at her captor. "Who the hell are you?" He didn’t answer immediately. He simply pulled out a sleek black pistol from his jacket and placed it on the seat between them—a silent reminder of where power lay tonight. "My name is Luca De Rossi," he said at last, voice smooth as silk but carrying the weight of a gunshot. Her blood ran cold. De Rossi. A name whispered in terror in every corner of Italy. The De Rossi family ruled the southern territories with iron fists and bloody crowns. "You've made a mistake," Ivy spat, masking her terror with rage. "My family—" "Is exactly why you’re here," Luca interrupted coolly. "This isn’t personal, princess. Just business." The car sped into the night, leaving Ivy Marcelli with nothing but a name and a terrible realization: Tonight was not the beginning of a negotiation. It was the beginning of a war.