OLD WOUNDS

BLOOD AND VOWS

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CHAPTER SIX

OLD WOUNDS

“The past doesn’t stay buried. It waits.”

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Emilia dreamed of fire.

Flames licked the sky, buildings crumbled, and voices screamed her name from the smoke. She ran barefoot down a hallway lined with photographs—her father, her childhood, a younger version of herself with wide eyes and clenched fists.

Then the floor gave out beneath her.

She fell into darkness.

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She woke drenched in sweat, heart racing, mouth dry.

The Moretti bedroom was still. Cool light filtered through the heavy curtains. The only sound was the hum of morning security.

No fire. No falling.

Just memory.

She sat up, rubbed her face, and reached under the pillow. The knife was still there. So was the silence.

She had never been afraid of nightmares—only of what they reminded her she couldn’t control.

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Later that morning, Rosa called.

It had been five days since the wedding. Five days of cold stares, locked doors, and long shadows.

“You sound exhausted,” Rosa said.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

“I’m married to a man who drinks more than he speaks and trusts silence more than people. What did you expect me to sound like? Glowing?”

Rosa sighed. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“You miss me?”

“I miss knowing you’re safe.”

Emilia paused.

That word—safe—felt like a lie now. It belonged to another version of her, one that hadn’t been traded in a blood deal.

“I’m not safe, Rosa,” she said. “I’m surviving.”

“Then keep doing it.”

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Emilia wandered the garden that afternoon, tracing the stone paths her mother used to admire when she was little. The smell of rosemary and burning leaves carried her back to a time before war. Before hate.

Before the name Moretti was something to curse.

She ended up by the reflecting pool, where a bench overlooked the still, dark water. She sat down and stared at her reflection.

A stranger looked back. A woman in black. Sharp eyes. No softness left.

She wasn’t the little girl clutching her father’s hand at Sunday brunch anymore. That girl was dead.

Her hand went to the ring on her finger. Thin. Elegant. Heavy as iron.

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Footsteps approached.

She didn’t have to look up to know it was Alessio.

“You always follow your wife around?” she asked.

“Only when she looks like she’s planning an escape.”

She smirked. “And what would you do if I was?”

“Depends where you run to.”

She looked up. “Would you stop me?”

He stood behind the bench, hands in his pockets. “I’d have to.”

“You’re not my warden.”

“No,” he said. “But you’re wearing my name.”

She laughed softly. “Do you think that means something to me?”

“It should.”

He sat beside her, far enough that their arms didn’t touch, but close enough that she felt the tension coil between them.

“I had a brother once,” he said suddenly.

She turned her head.

“He was ten. Shot outside a bakery. Wrong place, wrong time. Romano territory. Your family never apologized.”

She didn’t blink. “My father never ordered hits on kids.”

“No,” Alessio said, voice flat. “But he protected the ones who did.”

Emilia didn’t know what to say to that.

So she said nothing.

“You think I enjoy this?” he went on. “You think I wanted this marriage? I didn’t. But I’m not going to waste it.”

She studied his face. It looked carved from granite, but beneath it—something flickered. Something old.

“You still hate us,” she said.

“I don’t have the luxury of hate,” he replied. “I have work. War. You.”

The words landed heavy.

“I never pulled a trigger,” she said.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “You wear the name. The history comes with it.”

They sat in silence for a long time.

Then she asked, “Do you believe in peace?”

“I believe in power,” he said. “Peace is just a tactic.”

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That night, Emilia opened a box she hadn’t touched since moving in.

Inside: old letters, faded photos, a silver rosary, and a folded newspaper article—yellowed with age.

Car Bomb Kills Innocent Man in Mafia Feud

Her father’s name was mentioned once, buried in speculation and denial. A war he had no hand in, he always said. But she remembered the night. The shouting. The call that came and didn’t end.

She remembered how her father looked after that—like something inside him had gone cold.

Just like Alessio.

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She brought the clipping to dinner.

When she slid it across the table, Alessio didn’t react.

“You’re not the only one with ghosts,” she said.

He glanced at it, read the headline, and pushed it back toward her. “We all lose something.”

“Is that how you deal with it? Pretend loss is normal?”

“No,” he said. “I just stopped expecting justice.”

She looked at him for a long time. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

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Later, in bed, she watched him from across the room.

He was on the couch again, shirt off, eyes closed—but not asleep. He never really slept. Just rested like a soldier waiting for orders.

She spoke into the dark.

“I didn’t want this either.”

He opened his eyes.

“But I’m not going to pretend I don’t see what it is.”

“What is it?” he asked.

“A chance,” she said.

“To do what?”

“To change the ending.”

He didn’t speak again.

But he didn’t close his eyes either.

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