THE BLOOD OATH

The car rolled through towering gates of wrought iron, their black sheen catching the faintest shimmer of moonlight. Bianca pressed her palm to the tinted window, her breath fogging the glass as she strained for glimpses of the world beyond. A world she had been torn from in one violent instant.

The Romano estate loomed like a fortress dressed in gold. Ancient stone walls rose high, ivy crawling across them like veins, their sprawling length disappearing into shadows. The mansion itself was blinding in grandeur columns carved with angels, windows glinting like watchful eyes, and chandeliers visible even from the outside, burning defiantly against the night.

To the world, it was beautiful. To Bianca, it was a cage.

After some hours, Bianca woke in silk. The sheets were cool, soft as whispers, but the air around her felt like a noose. The room was a palace vaulted ceilings, ivory walls, velvet curtains dyed in shades of blood and ash. Everything gleamed perfection, yet none of it felt hers. A cage lined in velvet was still a cage.

She rose, bare feet brushing the marble floor. The first thing she reached for was the nightstand and no phone, no clock, no laptop and no connection. The wardrobe gleamed with gowns stitched in crimson, ivory, and black his colors, not hers. A tray sat by the door: breakfast untouched, delivered by unseen hands. Even the silver utensils reflected her face with a distortion that unsettled her. The mirrors on the walls were worse; they did not show her likeness, but something colder, sharper, as though someone else was watching from the other side.

Am I being spied on?

Panic rose like bile. Her father’s face flitted in her memory sweat, guilt, the way he had avoided her eyes when signing papers weeks ago. Whatever bargain he had made, she was the payment.

Bianca’s hands shook as she opened the wardrobe. A glint caught her eye. Behind the cascade of gowns, the faint outline of a wooden panel. Her breath quickened. With trembling fingers, she pressed it and gave way.

A narrow passage. Dust choked the air. Stone walls pressed close, suffocating. She pressed forward, heartbeat hammering. This was her way out. She could almost taste the night air beyond these walls. Her freedom pulsed like a beacon ahead 

And then, a shadow filled the passage.

Matteo.

He leaned casually against the stone, tailored suit immaculate, as though he had been waiting all along. His eyes dark, unreadable fixed on her like shackles.

“You move quickly for someone who just arrived.” His tone was silk over steel.

Bianca froze, her chest heaving. “You’re watching me?”

“Always.” A slow, almost lazy smile curved his lips. “Now you know the rules, Bianca. Velvet cages… barbed wires. Escape isn’t an option. Not for you.”

The corridor suddenly felt tighter, colder. She could only nod, because words would cost her more than silence.

Later in the evening, she was dressed like a doll. A red gown, cut to fit her curves, draped in jewels that weren’t gifts but chains. Two men escorted her into the grand dining hall, chandeliers dripping with crystal light. The long mahogany table gleamed, set with fine china and goblets of deep red wine that looked too much like blood.

There were three strangers waiting:

Salvatore Caruso the eldest, his hair silvering at the temples, eyes sharp as glass. He watched her as though measuring her worth, like a jeweler inspecting flawed stone.

Luca Vitale the opposite, younger, with a wolf’s grin that never quite reached his eyes. His fingers drummed against his wine glass, restless, dangerous.

And Lucia Barone the only woman at the table, tall, poised, a sculpted statue of velvet and bone. Her smile was thin, her gaze unforgiving, as if daring Bianca to misstep.

Then Matteo entered.

He commanded the room without raising his voice, without even speaking. He simply was. Black suit, blacker eyes, shoulders broad enough to bear kingdoms and kingdoms lost. His presence pressed down on Bianca like iron shackles.

He moved to the head of the table. The others rose in reverence. Bianca hesitated, still standing near the door, her pulse racing as if her body already understood the danger before her mind caught up.

“Sit,” Matteo said, his voice smooth as oil poured over steel.

It was not a request.

Bianca sat, her hands tight in her lap, the silk of her dress suffocating. She tried to appear calm, though her throat ached from the words she wanted to scream.

The dinner began, plates appearing as if conjured by ghosts. No servants lingered. The silence of the estate wrapped around them, broken only by the clink of silver against porcelain.

The strangers watched her.

Salvatore finally spoke. “So this is the girl.”

“Bianca Ricci,” Matteo said, his fork pausing midair. His tone was cool, clinical, as though introducing an investment, not a woman. “Daughter of Enzo Ricci. The last piece of a debt long forgotten.”

Bianca’s heart stuttered. Her father’s name fell like a stone into water. She wanted to demand answers, to demand how this stranger dared speak of him in front of her, but her voice caught in her chest.

“She doesn’t look like him,” Luca mused, leaning forward, his grin sharp. “Pretty little thing. Fragile. Nothing like Enzo.”

Lucia’s laugh was soft, cruel. “Fragile things break easily. Perhaps that’s why Matteo keeps them.”

Bianca’s nails bit into her palm. Heat rose in her chest, anger warring with humiliation. She wanted to stand, to tell them all that she was not theirs to discuss, not a prize, not a possession.

But then Matteo’s hand moved.

He set his wine glass down with deliberate slowness, black eyes sliding toward her. Just a look. Nothing more. And yet it stopped her cold.

Because the look was a warning.

She realized then that this was not just dinner. It was a display.

Matteo leaned back in his chair, voice calm but carrying across the table. “Bianca is my fiancée.”

The word detonated in the air.

Bianca’s chair scraped loudly against the marble floor as she half-rose. “What?”

The room stilled. The lieutenants stared, some amused, some unreadable.

“You can't, “ Bianca began, her voice trembling but sharp with fury. “You can’t decide that for me. I’m not ”

Matteo didn’t shout. He didn’t move. He only let his eyes hold hers, an ocean of shadow.

The silence was suffocating.

Finally, his voice cut through, low and deliberate, meant only for her but loud enough for all to hear:

“The ring comes tomorrow.”

It wasn’t a proposal. It was a decree.

Her breath caught, the words striking like a blade to the gut. The promise wasn’t tender. It wasn’t hopeful. It was final.

A prison disguised as devotion.

The lieutenants smiled, nodded, as though the announcement pleased them. Salvatore even raised his glass in silent toast.

Bianca sank back into her chair, her body trembling, her mind a storm of rage and helplessness.

Tomorrow, there will be a ring. Tomorrow, the cage will tighten.

And tonight, she realized she was surrounded by wolves dressed in silk.

Alone again, Bianca ripped at the gown, fury shaking her bones. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t give him that power. Instead, she searched the seams of her dress, her fingers finding what she’d hidden earlier a shard of metal from the embroidery, sharp enough to draw blood. She slid it beneath her pillow.

Her cage was velvet, yes. But she would not remain docile.

Hours later, the door creaked open.

Matteo stepped in. No guards, no entourage. Just him. The dim light from the hall haloed his frame, sharpening his presence into something both magnetic and lethal. Bianca stiffened, one hand brushing the hidden shard beneath the pillow.

He didn’t touch her. Didn’t threaten Instead, he stood at the edge of her bed, studying her with eyes too deep, too dark.

“What do you know,” he asked softly, “about your father’s last deal?”

The question sank into her like venom. Her lips parted, but no answer came.

“What do you know,” he asked again, his tone low, deliberate, each syllable sliding like steel across stone, “about your father’s last deal?”

The words struck harder than any threat could have.

Bianca froze.

Her father. The name she had buried beneath grief and betrayal clawed back into the room. The man who had sworn to protect her. The man whose empire had collapsed into ash. The man who had, she realized now, somehow tethered her fate to this iron-blooded king.

Her lips parted, but no sound came. She searched Matteo’s face for some hint of mockery, some sign that this was yet another power play. But his expression revealed nothing.

He wasn’t here to touch her.

He wasn’t here to claim her.

He was here for answers.

Matteo smiled faintly, almost cruelly. “Think carefully, Bianca. The truth will decide how long you survive here.”

And just like that, he was gone.

Bianca sat frozen in the silence he left behind, the shard still clenched in her hand, blood dripping from her palm.

The rebellion in her veins pulsed hotter than fear.

Tomorrow, the ring. Tonight, the plotting began.