Vowed in Blood

Home sweet home

Zoraya’s POV

The moment the ceremony was over, there were no cheers. Just the clinical sound of Dante Moretti closing a leather-bound ledger. The deal was singed, the debt was settled and the Morettis finally had access to ports, estates and chains of power in France. I was officially a ghost in a red dress.

“We aren’t staying here,” Darion said the moment we stepped out of the chapel. He didn’t look at his father. He didn’t even acknowledge the guards who fell in to step behind us. He just grabbed my elbow and steered me towards the private elevator.

“Where are we going?” I asked, my throat felt like it was lined with the marble dust of my father’s penthouse.

“Away from the noise” he replied.

We bypassed the main foyer and the waiting guests- the high society vultures of Milan who had come to witness the Montclair girl sold off. Instead, we were whisked down to a sub-basement where a single low profile SUV waited. No sirens, No motorcade. Just a driver who looked more like a hitman than a chauffeur.

The drive out of central Milan, took us to the outskirts where the city began to give way to the dark brooding shadows of the Lombardy countryside. The villa was the seat of the empire, but as we pulled into a long winding driveway flanked by ancient, gnarled cypress trees, I realized we were entering Darion’s personal sanctuary.

A glass house.

It was a stark, brutalist structure hidden behind a ten-foot stone wall. Three stories of reinforced glass and black steel rose out of a manicured lawn that looked like it had been trimmed with a razor.

The car stopped. Darion didn’t wait for the driver. He opened his own door and then mine, hauling me out into the biting night air.

“This is it piccola monella (little brat)” he said, gesturing to the structure. “No servants live on site. No Dante. No prying eyes. Just us”.

“And the cameras”. I noted, spotting the red pin-pricks of security lenses, embedded in the eaves.

“And the cameras.” He agreed with a dark smirk.

He led me inside. The interior was a nightmare of minimalism. Polished concrete floors, furnitures that looked like modern art, and a lighting system that cast everything in a cold, blue white-hue. It was a gallery, not a home.

Darion walked to a sprawling bar made of reclaimed oak and poured himself another drink.

Is this man some sort of alcoholic?

He didn’t offer me any. He downed it in one go and turned to face me. “Take off the dress, Zoraya”.

I froze. The hatred I’d been nursing since Paris, flared up. “I am not your plaything Darion. You got the signature. You got the name. You don’t get me.”

He set the glass down and began to walk toward me. Each footstep echoed against the concrete like a heartbeat. He stopped inches away, his shadow looming over me, eclipsing the moonlight streaming through the glass walls.

“You think I care about the dress?” He reached out, his hands wrapping the back of my neck. “You reek of the Montclair penthouse. You reek of your father’s desperation. Strip it off. I’ve had a new wardrobe delivered to the master suite . From this moment, you don’t wear anything that reminds me of where you come from.”

“I’ll wear what I want, asshole”. I hissed, trying to jerk my head back but his grip tightened just enough to stop me.

“You’ll wear what I give you.” He countered, his voice dropping to that terrifying, melodic baritone. “Or I’ll have my men go back to Paris and finish what I started in that villa. Do you want to know how many Inèses your father has left in his service?”

I felt the air leave my lungs. The monster was back, The one who didn’t negotiate.

“You’re a f*****g coward” I whispered, my eyes burning with tears that I refused to let fall.

“I’m a man who protects his property” he said. He leaned down, his lips brushing my ear, his breath smelling of expensive scotch and a violence that was barely contained. “The bedroom is at the top of the stairs. Go. If you’re not down in ten minutes, I’ll remove that silk myself. And I won’t be as gentle as the maids were.”

He released me. I stumbled back, my heels skidding on the concrete. I looked at the stairs, then at him. He was already pouring another drink, his back turned to me as if I were already beneath his notice.

I turned and ran up the stair, the red silk of my dress rustling like the sound of dry leaves.

The master suite was another cage of glass and steel. On the bed lay a simple black silk robe. No lace. No frills. Just a dark shroud.

I stood in the center of the room looking out at the dark expanse of the Milanese night. I could see the distant glow of the city, a world I was no longer a part of. I reached for the zipper at the back of the red dress.

As it pooled at my feet, a heap of crimson on the grey floor, I felt haunted. I tied the belt of the black robe and felt the coldness of the house beginning to seep into me.