Blood Vows

Smoke And Secrets

Alora didn’t sleep that night.

The guest room in the Valdez estate was everything a princess might dream of—silk sheets, polished floors, gilded mirrors, and a view of the stars. But nothing about this place felt like a dream. It was a cage made of luxury, and she was the newest bird caught in it.

She lay on the edge of the bed, still in her emerald dress, eyes wide open as her mind replayed every word Enzo had said at dinner.

“I’ll break you, little dove.”

Most girls would’ve cried. Most girls would’ve begged to go home.

But Alora Vito was not most girls.

She had lived under the cold shadow of her father’s name her whole life. Had watched men make decisions for her while smiling like it was a favor. She had endured years of silence, of rules, of being shaped into someone else’s vision of perfection.

And Enzo? He thought he could scare her with cruel words and hollow threats?

Let him try.

She rose from the bed and stepped out onto the balcony, wrapping a robe around herself. The night air was sharp, laced with the smell of cigars and the faint hum of the city below. Somewhere on the other side of the mansion, she knew Enzo wasn’t sleeping either.

Men like him never rested.

⸻

Enzo stood in the underground shooting range of the estate, a single lightbulb hanging overhead, the air thick with gunpowder and tension. He fired another round into the dummy in front of him—three shots, all straight to the chest. One between the eyes.

Flawless.

Still, it wasn’t enough.

His chest burned. Not from the effort, but from something deeper. Something colder. That girl—Alora—had managed to crawl under his skin in less than 24 hours. The softness in her voice, the strength behind her gaze… it didn’t make sense.

She was a Vito. She was raised in comfort, shielded from blood and war. She shouldn’t be able to meet his gaze without flinching.

And yet—she had.

He pulled the trigger again, imagining her face on the dummy.

Then cursed himself.

This wasn’t just an arrangement. This wasn’t just another job, another alliance.

This… this was a war. One he hadn’t planned for. One he couldn’t win if he let her get close.

Enzo slammed the pistol down on the table and ran a hand through his hair. His heart was thudding—too fast, too hard. He needed control. He needed distance.

He needed to remember who he was.

Not a man who loves. A man who survives.

⸻

The next morning arrived without color.

Alora stood at the breakfast table in the grand dining hall, the cold silence between her and Enzo thicker than the walls around them. He entered late—black shirt, slacks, and a glare that could cut glass.

“Good morning,” she said softly.

He didn’t answer. Just poured himself a cup of black coffee and sat down across from her.

Their forks scraped in silence. The guards stationed near the doors pretended not to notice the tension. A maid refilled her water glass, eyes down.

“Do you always glare at people while they eat?” Alora asked, sipping her tea without looking up.

“I don’t glare. I observe.”

“Mm. That explains the laser beam between your eyes.”

Enzo set his fork down slowly. “You woke up brave today.”

“I didn’t sleep.”

“Neither did I,” he said darkly. “Must be fate.”

Alora smiled faintly, though her fingers trembled. “Or we’re both prisoners pretending we’re free.”

For a second, something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe. Understanding.

Then it vanished.

“I’m no one’s prisoner,” he said.

“No?” She tilted her head. “Then why do you look like you’re always waiting for war?”

The silence returned like a slap.

Enzo stood. “You’re playing a dangerous game, dove.”

She looked up at him calmly. “Maybe I don’t mind danger.”

He leaned down, his face inches from hers, voice a whisper of heat and threat. “Be careful what you wish for.”

Then he turned and left the room, the echo of his steps lingering like smoke.

⸻

Later that day

Alora wandered the estate’s west wing, desperate for air and peace. She passed portraits of dead men with cold eyes and names she’d heard whispered in legends—men who had killed, ruled, and died for power.

And then, tucked at the end of a corridor, she found it: a room with the door ajar.

Inside were shelves of books, worn leather chairs, and a desk scattered with documents. Enzo’s study.

She should have left.

But curiosity whispered louder than caution.

She stepped in.

Letters. Maps. Photographs.

Her fingers hovered over one file—yellowed, aged. It had a red stamp that read: CONFIDENTIAL: VITO FAMILY - CLASSIFIED STRIKE ORDER

Before she could open it, a voice spoke behind her.

“You never learn, do you?”

She spun, heart lurching. Enzo stood in the doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“I—I was just—”

“Snooping?” he finished for her, stepping into the room. “That’s a dangerous habit.”

“I wasn’t going to take anything.”

“No. You were going to see something. And that’s worse.”

He was in front of her now, every inch of his frame radiating danger. His voice dropped, quiet and deadly.

“You think I hate you now, Alora?” His fingers brushed the edge of the folder behind her. “If you ever open that again… you’ll wish you were marrying anyone else.”

She stared up at him, breath trembling.

But her voice didn’t waver.

“Then tell me the truth.”

Enzo’s expression darkened.

“You don’t want to know my truth,” he whispered. “Because once you do… you’ll never be able to look at me the same way again.”

And for the first time since she met him, Alora believed him.

Because behind the hatred, behind the threats, behind every cruel word—

There was pain.

There was blood.

And there were secrets screaming to be buried.