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FIRST FIRE
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2025-05-09 00:38:12BLOOD AND VOWS
--- CHAPTER NINE FIRST FIRE “Hate burns clean. Want burns longer.” --- The first real fight didn’t happen during a strategy meeting, or a tense dinner, or some calculated standoff in the hallway. It happened in the armory. The room was below ground—metal-lined, low-lit, and silent as a crypt. Emilia wandered in unannounced, curious about the restricted sections Alessio had kept locked since her arrival. He was already there. Loading a Beretta, sleeves rolled to his forearms, focus narrowed like he was prepping for war. “Looking for something?” he asked without looking at her. “I thought this was my house too,” she said, crossing the threshold. He clicked the magazine into place. “It’s not a museum. You don’t walk in here uninvited.” “Yet here I am.” He finally looked at her. “I don’t like surprises.” “Good,” she said. “I’m full of them.” --- She walked the aisles slowly, studying the layout. Rows of guns, knives, and crates. Labels in coded ink. Not for show—this was inventory meant to kill. “You catalog all this by memory?” she asked. “I know every weapon in this room,” he said. “And who’s authorized to touch them.” “You think I’m going to steal a gun?” “I think you’re going to test me. And I’m reminding you that you’ll lose.” She turned on him. “Why do you think everything is a power play?” “Because in this world, it is.” “Then maybe the world needs to burn.” He stepped toward her. Close. Too close. “Careful, wife,” he said softly. “You’re not fireproof.” --- The tension snapped like a trigger. “I didn’t come down here to fight,” she said. “Then why are you here?” “To understand what kind of man I married.” He paused, expression unreadable. “And?” “You don’t scare me.” “You should be afraid of someone.” “I was,” she said. “Then he died in a car bombing, and now I’m just angry.” Silence fell between them like glass shattering. “I didn’t kill your father,” Alessio said finally. “But I didn’t stop it either.” Emilia’s breath hitched. He didn’t look away. “You want truth? There it is.” --- She walked past him, not to retreat—but to grab a pistol from the nearest table. He tensed. She cleared the chamber, spun it once, and handed it to him, grip first. “If you wanted me dead, you would’ve done it already,” she said. He took the gun but didn’t lower it right away. Then he placed it gently on the table. “You’re not weak,” he said. “Neither are you,” she replied. “But you’re used to people bowing. I don’t bend.” His gaze flicked to her mouth. “I noticed.” "glad you did" she responded with a hitched tone . The heat in the room shifted—hate cracking under something sharper, something blazing, something fierce, something extraordinary. Want. --- She turned to go, but he caught her wrist. Not hard. Just enough. She froze. “I don’t like being played,” he said. “Then stop pretending this marriage is just politics.” He smirked, "is that so wifey?" "Don't call me that motherfucker". she responded with a harsh tone. In a Matter of few seconds, be exhaled in a bit to calm herself down. Their eyes locked. And then—fire. He kissed her. Rough, fast, sharp like a blade drawn too quick. She pulled back just enough to breathe. “This doesn’t mean I trust you.” “I don’t want your trust,” he said. He kissed her again. And this time, she kissed him back, matching his energy. ---
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