Crimson vow

POV: Alessia and Damien Alessia – Nightfall The envelope was black. Not navy, not charcoal—black as spilled ink. No return address, just my name etched in silver script. Alessia Moretti. The paper was thick, expensive, scented faintly of cloves and something darker—like smoked wood and forbidden memory. I stared at it on my kitchen counter for a long minute before I dared to touch it. My fingertips brushed over the wax seal—a symbol I didn’t recognize at first. A silver dagger, twisted through a rose. It felt like a threat pretending to be a gift. I should have thrown it away. Instead, I broke the seal. Inside was a single card, printed in Italian and English: “You are cordially invited to attend the Vescari Winter Gala. La Notte delle Ombre. Saturday, 10 PM. Vescari Estate. A car will be sent.” No RSVP. No contact. Just that. I read it three times before I slid it back into the envelope. The name Vescari wasn’t just familiar. It was infamous. The Vescari family ruled this city like a shadow government. Whispers followed their name. Drugs. Arms. Blood. But they were untouchable—hidden behind layers of lawyers, politicians, and silence. I never imagined I’d have any reason to interact with them. I was a photographer. A nobody. Twenty-six, barely scraping by in an overpriced apartment above a bakery in the city’s old district. My work was stark, moody, mostly black-and-white portraiture of strangers. Faces told stories, and I hunted for those stories in the lines around the eyes. But I had no connection to the Vescari. Not that I knew of. And yet they knew me. Later That Night I called my brother. “Luca, I got something weird,” I said. “An invitation. To the Vescari Gala.” Silence. A breath. “Where are you?” “Home.” “I’m coming over.” “No—wait—” He’d already hung up. He arrived fifteen minutes later, smelling of gasoline and rage. Luca was thirty, older by four years, and always had the kind of quiet intensity that made people take a step back when he entered a room. He didn’t knock. Just walked in. I held up the envelope. His face changed. “You opened it?” he asked tightly. “Yes? It had my name on it.” Luca snatched it from my hand and read it. His jaw locked. “This isn’t good, Ale.” “Why? Who are they really?” He looked at me, and for the first time in years, I saw fear. “They don’t invite people unless they want something. And when they want something, you don’t say no.” The Dress Saturday came too quickly. The car arrived at 9:45 PM. A matte black Maserati with a driver in a matching suit and gloves. He said nothing. Just opened the door. I’d chosen a black silk dress—strapless, floor-length, with a high slit and a neckline that dipped low enough to be reckless. My hair was pinned up, my throat bare. As we drove out of the city and into the northern hills, my nerves coiled like snakes under my skin. The Vescari Estate came into view like a dream carved from marble and menace. A mansion with turrets, lit by firelight and elegance. There were other cars, other guests—but none of them looked comfortable. Power clung to the air like perfume. The driver stopped at the entrance. “Miss Moretti,” he said with a small nod. “Welcome.” Damien – Above the Ballroom From the balcony above the ballroom, I watched her enter. Alessia Moretti. She walked like she didn’t belong—but held her head like she did. That alone made me smile. She was more beautiful than the photos. Black dress. Pale skin. Those eyes—intelligent and suspicious. She didn’t flinch when the guards searched her. She didn’t glance around like prey. No, she observed. She was already calculating. Good. She would need that mind before this was over. “Is that her?” Valentina's voice curled behind me like smoke. “Yes.” “You’re making a mistake.” I looked at Valentina—clad in crimson, lips red as blood. She had been promised to me since childhood. She had become lethal out of loyalty and pride. But she wasn’t the woman below. “No,” I said quietly. “She is the one.” Alessia – The Ballroom The ballroom shimmered like something from a different century—polished marble floors, vaulted ceilings gilded in gold, chandeliers dripping crystal. But it wasn’t the beauty that struck me. It was the weight in the air. Power. Danger. Secrets. Eyes turned as I descended the staircase. Then I saw him. He stood at the far end of the room like a shadow wrapped in silk. Black suit. Black tie. Tall, composed. His hair was midnight dark, his features sharp, but it was his eyes that held me still. Silver. Cold. Intelligent. Unforgiving. Damien Vescari. He looked at me like he already owned me. And I hated the way my body reacted. He moved through the crowd like a knife—silent, swift. And suddenly he was in front of me, his hand outstretched. “Alessia,” he said, his voice deep velvet. “You came.” My throat tightened. “I wasn’t aware I had a choice.” He smiled, slow and unreadable. “You’ll find that’s often true in my world.” When he touched my hand, I felt it like a shock. Not warmth—heat. Control. He leaned in. “Dance with me.” I didn’t say yes. I didn’t need to. He already had me in his arms, and the music changed. Damien – Holding Her Her body fit against mine too easily. I shouldn’t have touched her yet. Not tonight. But I’d waited too long already. Her scent was subtle—clean, with a hint of lilac and defiance. She moved with tension, like a coiled spring. Her heart beat fast. Good. Fear meant she knew exactly where she was. “You’re wondering why you’re here,” I murmured. “No. I’m wondering how long before I regret it.” Another smile. Sharp. “That depends on how honest you are with me.” She blinked. “About what?” “About what your brother did.” Her spine stiffened. Just a little. Hook. Set. Alessia – The Mask Slips I pulled back from the dance. “What does Luca have to do with this?” Damien studied me. “You don’t know?” I hated that his voice sent a chill down my spine. Not because it was cruel—but because it was calm. Controlled. And I didn’t trust calm men in violent worlds. “No,” I said flatly. “I don’t.” He leaned closer, his lips brushing my ear. “Then tonight may be worse than I planned.” A shriek cut across the ballroom. Everyone turned. A woman in a silver dress collapsed, clutching her throat. Her champagne flute crashed to the floor, shattering. Blood dripped from her lips. People gasped. Stepped back. She was dead before she hit the ground. Damien didn’t flinch. Guards swept in. Music stopped. Screams followed. But Damien never took his eyes off me. “You shouldn’t have come alone,” he said quietly. I stared at the body, then at him. “What the hell is this?” “A message,” he said. “But not for me. For your brother.” Damien – Blood on the Floor They wanted a spectacle. They made it messy. The woman—Lena Bartello—wasn’t innocent, but she wasn’t meant to die tonight. Her death was a warning: someone was making moves against me from the inside. They just used Alessia’s presence to deliver it. I watched Alessia take it in. The blood. The silence. The weight of it all. She didn’t cry. She didn’t run. She asked questions. That’s when I knew—this woman wasn’t just a pawn. She was the kind of storm that could ruin kingdoms. Alessia – Aftermath An hour later, the guests had been cleared. The ballroom emptied. I stood alone in a dark corner, still in shock. Damien returned with a glass of wine and handed it to me. “You expect me to drink after what just happened?” He shrugged. “You came here for answers.” “I didn’t come here to see someone die.” He stepped closer. Too close. “You came here because I called. Because your brother put you in this position. And now, Alessia, you’re in it whether you like it or not.” I slapped him. Hard. His jaw turned slightly from the force. He didn’t move. Didn’t touch me. His smile was wicked. “There she is.” He turned away, walked toward the balcony doors, then stopped. “Oh,” he said, almost casually. “Before you leave… you should know: Your brother didn’t just steal from me. He’s the reason your father is dead.” Then he walked into the cold night air, leaving me in silence and shattering memory.