Bound By Blood

“Santos dogs!” Luca Moretti’s voice tore through the villa like a warning shot. Inside the hall, Isabella Moretti grabbed his arm. “Not the boy, Ricardo,” she begged. “Please, don’t go after him. He’s only fifteen. He’s just like your daughter.” There was a pause. Silence so heavy it felt like the house was holding its breath. Then...a gunshot. Then another. And just like that, the villa stopped belonging to the living. Matteo Moretti learned early that grief doesn’t leave. It waits. It grows teeth. At twenty-six, he still remembered the sound of that night more clearly than his own heartbeat. His mother’s voice. His father’s last breath. And the silence that came after. Elena Santos also learned something at the age of nine. That love does not protect you. It only tells you what you stand to lose. Her mother was killed on the way to school. Two bullets. No warning. No reason that mattered anymore. The police called it feud violence. The Moretti called it justice. The Santos called it unfinished business. Elena never called it the day she stopped being a child. No one in Blackwood remembered how it started. Only how it continued. People whispered. "Shipping routes. Money. A woman. A betrayal no one could agree on." It didn’t matter anymore. Only the pattern mattered. Santos: one dead. Moretti: two. And neither side was done counting. **** Elena was no longer allowed into go to the bakery. Baking actually looked good on her. She helped grow the small bakery and the moment she succeeded, Catherine stepped in. "You are not good at business," Catherine said one evening after Elena got home. "I'm taking over the business now." In that case, Elena was to stay at home. She was to do the "simple chores" done at "home". "Home" was the Santos mansion. The Santos mansion did not feel like home. It felt like a memory that refused to rot properly. Paint peeled from the walls in long strips. The chandeliers were missing crystals, like broken teeth in a smile. Elena Santos stood in the kitchen, scrubbing a pot that had already been cleaned twice. Her hands were raw. Still, she scrubbed. Because stillness was worse. “Don’t.” Peter’s voice came quietly from the doorway. Elena didn’t look up. “She’ll hear.” “She’s not here.” There was a pause. He stepped in and placed a paper bag on the counter. Elena didn’t need to open it to know. “Eat,” he said. “I can’t—” “Eat.” So she did. Fast. Like food might disappear if she hesitated. Peter watched her the way people watch the only people who made them feel special. Like if he looked too long, someone would notice what he had become. Very softly. Not safely but carefully. After all, they were of the same blood. They were Santos' blood. Except Nina. “Nina,” Elena said under her breath. Too late. Silk footsteps filled the kitchen. Nina stood in the doorway like she owned the air. Her gaze slid over Elena slowly. Then she smiled. “Oh,” she said. “Still here.” She crossed the room. Too close. Her fingers lifted Elena’s chin. Not gentle. Not violent. Worse than both. Intentional. “You’re in my mother’s house,” Nina whispered. “Using my kitchen. Breathing my air.” Her thumb traced Elena’s cheek. Almost affectionate. “Try not to forget your place.” Peter moved. “Nina.” She didn’t even look at him. “What?” she said lightly. “You’re going to save her again?” A pause. Then— A voice from the doorway. “Enough.” Ricardo Santos had entered. He saw everything. And did nothing. Instead, he poured himself a drink. Silence broke something in the room. Not loudly. Quietly. Permanently. That night, the house went still. Too still. Then— The doorbell rang. No footsteps followed it. No car outside. Just absence. Ricardo opened the door. No one there. Only a box. Inside: A rosary. Old wood. Broken string. Maria Santos’s rosary. The one buried with her. Under it: A note. Three words. Ricardo read it. The glass slipped from his hand. Shattered. Whiskey spread across the floor like spilled truth. He turned the note. A photograph. Peter Santos. Marked in red. And beneath it: I have come to return the favour, Santos. Everybody in the Santos house went silent. Then Ricardo finally spoke. His voice barely held together. “He’s back.” Peter looked at Elena then stepped in front of her without thinking. Ricardo looked at his son. Then didn’t look away. Because he understood something very clearly. Matteo Moretti was here for revenge. He was here for balance. And Peter Santos was the price.