Alpha's Vow: Bound by Blood and Billionaires

Maps and notebooks spill across Lila's cluttered desk, the chaos threatening to engulf her. She eyes each lead with ferocity, muttering like a detective unraveling a crime. Across the cramped apartment, Marco angles a light toward his new photography portfolio, its brilliance bouncing off the walls, full of images too vivid to ignore. His grin is as wide as the gap between them, an ocean of clutter and sibling camaraderie. "Do you ever stop to breathe?" he calls, words a gentle tease. The worn leather jacket by the door stands as witness to their shared history. Lila throws him a quick, sardonic look. "Breathing's overrated. Especially when I'm close to something big." She waves a hand, her energy as electric as the exposed bulbs hanging from the ceiling. "Close to what, coffee-fueled insomnia?" Marco's voice carries warmth, contrasting the bite in his words. He arranges his gear with the meticulous care of an artist. The apartment thrums with their connection, walls plastered with conspiracy boards that spill secrets like gossip. Half-empty coffee cups linger on every surface, an ode to Lila's tireless obsession. "I prefer to call it dedication," Lila retorts, tapping a pen against her chin. Her dark hair is swept up in a careless bun, loose strands framing her face like an unintentional halo. "You've got to take a break sometime," Marco insists, setting his camera to capture his newest shots. The images stare back at him, arresting in their clarity. "You think mafia connections expose themselves?" she challenges, raising an eyebrow. Her green eyes flicker with determination. "Moretti doesn't know how to take it easy, film at eleven," Marco announces, like he's narrating a headline. "Funny," she says, shaking her head with mock disapproval. "You going to show me that work or what?" Marco sweeps a hand toward his setup, eyes twinkling with pride. "Just waiting for your highness to notice." Lila rises from her desk, weaving through the maze of papers and cameras. She approaches the portfolio, flipping through with the touch of someone who sees beyond the surface. "These are incredible, Marco." She pauses on a shot of graffiti, colors exploding off the page. "You captured this city like no one else." He beams, watching her reaction closely. "I'm trying a new angle, you know? Less staged, more real." "You've got talent," she says, voice softer. "Just be careful in those areas, okay? They aren't always safe." "You're one to talk about safe," Marco laughs, eyes playful. "With all this—" He gestures around the apartment, filled with shadows of her latest investigation. Lila crosses her arms, a mix of affection and stubbornness. "It's my job to worry about you. You're not mom, remember?" "I know," Marco replies, his voice dipping into sincerity. "I just don't want you to forget to live." They linger on that moment, a silence brimming with unspoken care. Lila tousles his hair, the gesture sisterly and familiar. "Alright, enough with the mushy stuff," she declares, changing the subject. "What's your favorite piece so far?" He flips to a stark black-and-white shot of a figure blurred against a backdrop of streetlights. "This one. Captures a different kind of wild." Lila studies it, nodding. "It's haunting. Like you're seeing something the rest of us miss." "That's the goal," Marco says, settling into the couch with ease. "Make you see the world like I do." The mood is light, the apartment a cocoon of safety. But as Lila moves back to her desk, the comfortable air shifts. She hears it first—a car engine outside, idling longer than it should. Her instincts sharpen, eyes narrowing. "Did you hear that?" she asks, more to herself than Marco. The question hangs as she edges closer to the window. He looks up, unconcerned. "What, the rumble of your paranoia?" Lila ignores the jab, focusing on the subtle sound of footsteps pausing outside their door. Her hand drifts to her phone, an automatic reaction. "Lila, come on," Marco says, rolling his eyes. "You're letting work get to you." But she's already on high alert, tension knotting her shoulders. The apartment seems to hold its breath, waiting. "Marco, something's not right," Lila insists, her voice edged with urgency. He gets up, joining her at the door. "Okay, okay. If it makes you feel better, I'll check it out." Their easygoing banter drains away, replaced by the prickling sense of danger. Marco's earlier tease now feels like a distant memory. Lila holds him back with a quick gesture, eyes wide. "No, wait. Just listen." They both freeze, ears straining to catch the faint but unmistakable signs of trouble lurking outside, ready to pounce. The door implodes, splinters dancing through the air, a deadly confetti of shock and violence. Black-suited phantoms pour into the room, their masks rendering them faceless nightmares. Lila lunges for her phone, a wild instinct, but she's swatted down, air crushed from her lungs. "Marco!" Her scream rips through the confusion. His eyes lock on hers, panicked, before rough hands snatch him away. Tables topple, chaos exploding in her ears. "You shouldn't have been digging, Moretti," one specter growls. Lila springs up, fists flying, a tempest of desperation, her world a battlefield of paper and fear. Marco's shouts mingle with the crash of breaking glass. "Lila!" His voice, a lifeline and a plea. Two attackers wrestle him toward the door, their grip unyielding. He fights like a cornered animal, wild and frantic. Coffee cups shatter, hot liquid seeping into the carpet like fresh blood. Lila charges after Marco, a streak of fierce resolve, but a shadow looms and barrels her into the wall. She sees stars, the room spinning in a whirl of color and noise. She hits the floor and rolls, a practiced maneuver. Her foot connects with one attacker's knee, forcing him to stumble back with a curse. Her heart is a war drum, pounding with adrenaline and rage. "Marco!" she yells again, pushing through the clutter, her leather jacket tangling underfoot. Papers catch air like frightened birds, scattering with each violent motion. Lila sees her brother's terrified face, sees him buck against the men dragging him away. "You can't have him!" she screams, voice raw with defiance. Marco kicks, a desperate move that tips a chair over one attacker's head. "Lila, don't!" His warning is edged with desperation and brotherly fear. She hears him, every instinct to protect igniting within her. Another man charges; she ducks under his swing, delivering a sharp jab to his ribs. He doubles over, but Lila is already moving, a whirlwind of fight and fury. The apartment is unrecognizable, a landscape of chaos and ruin. She aims for the closest man, determination sharpening her movements. Her fingers graze Marco's sleeve, hope surging. The glimpse of hope vanishes as an arm pins her throat against the wall. Her breath cuts off, and Marco is dragged farther away, kicking, a black hood thrust over his head. "No!" Lila gasps, struggling like a trapped creature. Her eyes burn with frustration, and the edges of her vision blur with helpless fury. They yank Marco through the doorway, his final shout echoing in her ears, a haunting call of her name. Fueled by sheer will, she writhes and breaks free, the man losing his grip in the chaos. She sprints after them, unrelenting. A vicious hit blindsides her, pain exploding in her temple. The floor rises up to meet her, cruel and unforgiving. Her world dims as the attackers vanish into the night with Marco. His absence tears at her, leaving nothing but the echoes of their destruction behind. Lila wakes to copper in her mouth, the taste of blood and betrayal. Her breath is a ragged protest against the chaos that surrounds her, a wasteland of furniture and dreams left broken and bleeding. She hauls herself up, head spinning, temple sticky with warmth and pain. Panic stabs her awake, drives her to the window where the SUV's taillights burn red in the darkness, a final flicker of hope slipping away. "Marco." His name beats through her, an ache of loss and fear. She claws through the wreckage, searching. The card waits like an accusation. Lila stumbles across the destruction, each step a struggle against the spinning room. "Marco," she whispers, voice cracked and urgent, as if saying his name will conjure him back. The overturned furniture mocks her desperation, and the shattered glass glints like cruel stars on a dark night. She reaches the window, eyes locking onto the distant blur of the SUV. It's gone, a specter that steals away her brother and leaves her drowning in helplessness. Her fist bangs against the window frame, fury battling with the terror in her veins. Adrenaline surges, and she turns from the window, purpose replacing shock. She tears through the wreckage, feet crunching over spilled coffee and broken memories. Her phone is nowhere, her calls for help suffocated by the room's emptiness. Her hand stops, hovers over a small white card lying conspicuously among the chaos. She snatches it up, dread twisting her stomach. The stylized "V" and wolf's head sear into her brain, branding her with their silent threat. It's a symbol she knows all too well, whispers in dark corners and rumors in the city streets. The Mafia. Her breath catches as she flips the card over. The words scrawl a grim promise: "Your brother pays for your sins. Stop investigating or he dies." Rage and fear crash through her, a tidal wave of emotion that drowns out everything else. She clutches the card, knuckles white, each word a dagger that twists deeper into her heart. Lila's mind spins, but not with panic. The shock hardens into something sharper, more dangerous. Her eyes snap to the wall where her investigation board clings stubbornly amid the ruin. She moves with new urgency, ignoring the blood that drips like a steady drumbeat down her cheek. Her fingers trace the web of connections she's been mapping for weeks. Corporate corruption. Unmarked bills. Shadowy figures pulling strings. Each thread suddenly burns with clarity, illuminating the ties she's been too blind to see. Mafia. The attack, the warning, the brutal message—all slot into place like the final pieces of a deadly puzzle. They took Marco because of her. Because she was getting close. The guilt gnaws at her, but so does the resolve. She tears down a handful of notes, the ones that matter now more than ever. Lila grabs her mother's leather jacket, its familiar weight a comforting armor. She snatches her notebook, stuffing it with the incriminating evidence she needs. "I'm coming for you, Marco," she vows, the words fierce and full of fire. She heads for the door, every inch of her bristling with determination. The apartment is a battlefield, but she's already marching toward her war.