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THE HIT
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2025-05-09 00:02:01BLOOD AND VOWS
--- CHAPTER ONE THE HIT “In this life, love doesn't kill you. Loyalty does.” - The wine glass tipped a second before the explosion. Emilia Romano didn’t hear the blast first—she felt it. A deep, gut-punch thud that rattled the floor and cracked the windows like bones snapping in a quiet room. Her father’s car. Gone. She didn’t scream. She stood there barefoot on the marble, wine dripping from her fingers, glass shattered around her feet. The air pulsed with heat from the hilltop, where smoke now curled into the twilight like a funeral veil. Rosa burst through the doors, face pale, phone shaking in her hand. “They got him. Emmy—he’s gone.” Emilia didn’t move. “Who?” But she already knew. --- The Romano estate turned into a fortress by sundown. Men armed to the teeth patrolled every corridor. Someone handed her a coat. Someone else poured her whiskey. Nobody met her eyes. They didn’t need to. The Don was dead. Marco Romano—her father, her shield, her blood—reduced to fire and metal on a winding road. A lifetime of warnings echoed in her ears: Trust no one. Especially not them. The Morettis. Her teeth clenched so hard her jaw ached. Of course it was them. It had always been them. Alessio Moretti, heir to that cold-blooded empire, would’ve given the order. Nothing big moved without his word. They hadn’t just struck a blow. They’d declared war. And now the vultures were circling. -- By nightfall, the top families were already negotiating. The ink on her father’s death hadn’t dried, and they were talking peace. Blood is business, she thought bitterly. Always had been. Rosa hovered in the doorway. “They want you at the meeting.” Emilia blinked. “Me?” Rosa nodded, lips tight. “It’s not a request.” --- The room was all shadows and candlelight. Don Salvatore Moretti sat at the far end like a king. Her uncle beside him. And next to him—Alessio. He looked exactly like the photos. Sharp suit. Sharper jaw. Eyes like cold glass. He didn’t look at her like a man meeting his future bride. He looked at her like she was a problem to solve. Emilia stared him down without blinking. “Emilia,” her uncle began, voice stiff. “There will be no war. We’ve reached a solution.” Her heart thudded once. Then again, harder. “You’re letting them walk?” “No one here is innocent,” Don Salvatore said calmly. “But we all want the same thing—order.” She crossed her arms. “So what? Shake hands and pretend he didn’t kill my father?” Alessio didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch. Just watched her like he was already bored. Her uncle’s voice turned to steel. “You’re going to marry him.” --- Emilia didn’t answer right away. The words hung in the air like the smoke from her father’s car—You’re going to marry him. It was quiet. Too quiet. Her eyes didn’t leave Alessio’s face. He was sitting, No smirk, no reaction, no regret. Just watching her. Waiting. “This is a joke,” she said finally, voice sharp. “You expect me to marry the son of the man who had my father killed?” “You want war?” her uncle snapped. “Because that’s the other option.” Don Salvatore leaned forward, fingers steepled. “No one here is innocent, signorina. Your father played this game, too. This marriage ends it.” Ends it. Emilia laughed once. Cold. “Or buries it.” Her uncle stood. “This is not up for debate.” “And what about him?” she asked, jerking her chin toward Alessio. “He doesn’t want this either. Why should I agree to be his hostage?” For the first time, Alessio spoke. “You’re not a hostage,” he said, calm and controlled. “You’re a solution.” The room went still. Emilia blinked. “I’d rather burn.” He stood, slowly, deliberately. “Then you’ll burn in my house. At my table. Wearing my name.” Rage flared behind her ribs. “Try me.” A flicker passed across his face. Amusement? Disgust? She couldn’t tell. But she hated how calm he was. Like this wasn’t real. Like she didn’t matter. “This is happening,” Don Salvatore said. “You both know what’s at stake.” Emilia’s hands curled into fists. “You think this will stop the blood?” “No,” Alessio said, voice like glass. “But it’ll give us time to clean it up.” --- The drive back to the estate was silent. Rosa sat beside her in the back seat, fidgeting with the hem of her coat. Emilia stared out the window, jaw tight, heart pounding. “They didn’t even ask me,” she muttered. “They never would have,” Rosa said softly. “Not in this world.” “I’m not a pawn.” “No,” Rosa agreed. “But you’re on the board.” --- Later that night, Emilia stood in her father’s study. The chair where he used to sit was empty. His whiskey still half full. The air smelled like leather, dust, and gun oil. A marriage. To Alessio Moretti. She closed her eyes and tried to picture it. The ceremony. The lies. The life after. She saw herself in white. Saw him in black. Saw the bullet between them waiting to fire. Her father once told her, There’s no such thing as peace. Only quiet between kills. Now she’d have to live in that silence—with the man who helped make it. -
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