Pacts Of Ashes
1055 Words
The sky above Milan groaned with thunder as lightning split the clouds like veins of fire. Bianca sat rigid in the back seat of the armored SUV, her gaze fixed out the rain-speckled window. Every turn the vehicle took felt like a spiral into a deeper unknown.
She had been summoned.
No explanations, no details—just a location: San Silvestro Monastery.
A place used by the old families to seal secrets and sanctify sins. Only those invited by blood or death ever stepped beyond its gates.
Across from her, Lorenzo sat with his pistol disassembled on his lap, cleaning each piece with unnerving calm. His fingers worked like it was second nature, like he'd done it in childhood. Maybe he had.
“Why there?” she asked, her voice cutting through the silence.
He didn’t look up. “Because the old ways require old ground.”
Bianca’s nails dug into her palms. “I’m not playing into their theatrics. I’m not bending to whatever ceremony they’ve cooked up.”
Lorenzo’s eyes flicked up. “You don’t have a choice anymore, Bianca. Not after what happened with Matteo.”
She flinched.
Matteo’s betrayal still stung like an open wound. His blood wasn’t even dry on her memory.
Lorenzo leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Whatever happens tonight… don’t speak unless spoken to. Don’t promise anything unless I nod. And don’t, under any circumstance, agree to be bound.”
“Bound?” she echoed.
He exhaled. “Just follow my lead.”
The SUV rolled to a stop before the wrought-iron gates. Candlelight glimmered beyond the archways like a vigil waiting to be extinguished.
Inside, the monastery smelled of wax and damp stone. Hooded figures lined the pews—elders from every family: Bellandi, Rossi, Delacroix, Santoro. Their faces were veiled in shadow and tradition.
Bianca’s heels echoed down the marble aisle, every step a declaration. Dante appeared from a side corridor, dressed in midnight black, the jagged scar on his jaw visible like a brand of defiance. He looked at her with unreadable eyes—neither apology nor anger, only gravity.
“Bianca,” he said, voice low.
“Dante.” She did not flinch. “You orchestrated this?”
He stepped beside her. “I fought to keep you out of it.”
“Then you failed.”
The Abbot, a neutral figure chosen by the old mafia order, raised his hand, and the whispers stopped.
“We gather tonight under the Rite of Ashes,” the old man began. “A covenant burned into blood, honored by legacy and flame. A pact must be made to prevent a war that will consume us all.”
Bianca looked around. “You think this stops war? Dragging me here? Binding me with oaths I didn’t consent to?”
“It’s either this,” one of the Delacroix elders rasped, “or your bloodline gets erased from the table.”
Her breath caught.
They weren’t negotiating. They were threatening her existence—her family’s name, their remnants, and any future she might try to forge.
Dante stepped forward. “That’s enough.”
He looked at her—not with dominance, but with a kind of broken loyalty. “They want a pact. A marriage to merge the De Luca and Santoro lines. One final offering to cement peace. But I told them, if it’s not your choice, then it’s off the table.”
Bianca stared at him, stunned.
He was offering her a way out. In front of the entire council.
A silence rippled across the room.
One of the Rossi men laughed bitterly. “You’d break a centuries-old rite for her?”
“She’s not a pawn,” Dante said coldly.
Bianca stepped forward.
“And yet she stands in a game that’s been rigged long before she ever learned the rules,” she said. Her voice no longer wavered. “So if this pact is real… I demand to read it.”
Lorenzo tensed behind her, but she ignored him. The Abbot nodded, unrolling the ancient parchment.
It was written in blood-bound clauses: alliances, territory shifts, access to arms, and offshore accounts. But what caught her attention was the final clause.
If broken by either party, the offending family forfeits protection under the Five Families.
Her stomach twisted. This wasn’t a vow of love. It was a contract of war dressed in ceremonial robes.
“I want something added,” Bianca said.
Murmurs erupted.
“You don’t get to—” someone snapped.
“She does,” the Abbot cut in. “Every pact allows for negotiation… if both parties agree.”
Bianca turned to Dante. “If I sign this, if I agree to this… You swear to me—on your blood—you’ll never make decisions for me again. No secrets. No locked doors. No more half-truths.”
Dante nodded once. “On my blood.”
“And if I walk away now?”
“Then I protect you anyway. And we all go to war.”
Her heartbeat roared in her ears.
Bianca stepped closer, looking into the eyes of the man who had abducted her, then protected her. Lied to her, then bled for her.
Everything in her wanted to run.
But if she did… she'd be hunted, not just by enemies, but by ghosts.
She picked up the ceremonial dagger from the altar, slashed her palm, and pressed it against Dante’s outstretched hand.
Blood met blood.
The pact was sealed.
The room erupted in chants and echoes of the old tongue, smoke rising from the brazier as the parchment burned to ash.
Later that night, when the monastery had emptied and only silence remained, Bianca stood alone before the altar.
Dante approached, his steps slow.
“You didn’t have to,” he said softly.
She turned to him. “I didn’t do it for them. I did it so I’d never be powerless again.”
Dante reached for her hand. She let him.
But in her mind, the words of the contract repeated like a prayer or a curse.
If broken, the protection ends.
And she had a feeling that someday, someone would break it.
Whether it would be him or her, she didn’t yet know.
But when it happened, the ashes would burn hotter than ever before.
- Writer
