NO SAFE WORDS IN BLOODLINES

ZACH

I’ve seen killers before. Been raised by a few.

Laughed with them. Fought with them. Been punched in the mouth by them when I didn’t follow the rules in some group home with more fists than beds.

But none of them scared me like Roman Vittore.

It’s not the suit. Not the way he walks like he owns every breath in the room. It’s the silence. The man carries silence like a blade. Sharp. Measured. Lethal. And today, he’s pointing it at me.

I sit in the center of his office. There’s no table between us. No guards, even. Just him. And me. And a glass of something expensive on the side table, untouched.

He doesn’t offer me a drink. Doesn’t even ask how I feel. He just looks.

Like I’m something to be studied. Or caged. Or erased.

“You’re awake,” he says finally, voice smooth as ice melting in a glass.

“Clearly,” I reply, leaning back. “Either that or I’m dreaming, and this is a really shitty hotel room.”

His lip twitches. Almost a smile. But not quite.

He stands, slow and deliberate, and walks behind me. I don’t turn to look. I keep my posture casual. Relaxed.

Don’t let him see it. The tension. The calculation.

The fact that my heart is beating loud enough to shake the floorboards.

“You know who I am,” he says behind me.

“I’ve heard the name,” I say. “Roman Vittore. Mafia kingpin. South District godfather. Likes his liquor old and his enemies younger.”

He chuckles.

“Good,” he says. “You’ve got a mouth on you. That’ll make this more entertaining.”

He moves to my side, sits in the chair across from me. And the smile drops.

“You’re Zakhar Veronin.”

There it is.

The name I’ve been hearing whispered like a curse. The name I was born with, apparently, even though I never asked for it.

I don’t answer.

He takes my silence as confirmation.

“I knew your father,” he says.

My eyes flick to him.

He nods.

“A cruel man. Smart. Arrogant. Just like you.”

“You killed him?”

“I don’t need to kill the dead,” he replies. “He was already rotting before the bullets ever touched him.”

I absorb that. He’s trying to rattle me. It’s not working. Yet.

“Why bring me in?” I ask. “Why not just put a bullet in me the second you found out who I was?”

“Because bullets are for loose ends,” he says. “You’re not a loose end yet.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“You’re an opportunity.”

I raise a brow.

“To do what?”

“To end a bloodline with honor.”

My jaw tightens.

“That sounds a lot like a euphemism for getting me to kill myself.”

He smiles again.

“No. I want you to work for me.”

That throws me.

“You want a Veronin in your ranks?”

“I want the last Veronin where I can see him,” he says simply. “Under my thumb. Wearing my colors. Bleeding for me.”

I laugh once, dry and bitter.

“You really think I’m going to kneel for the man who raised the girl I love to betray me?”

His expression doesn’t shift.

“Love,” he repeats. “Interesting word. Not one I thought you’d use.”

“You don’t get to talk about love,” I snap. “Not when you tried to weaponize her.”

“Alana makes her own choices,” he says, voice flat. “She’s smarter than you give her credit for.”

“I give her plenty of credit,” I growl. “But she deserves better than this place. Better than you.”

He leans back again, steeples his fingers.

“And yet here you are.”

That lands.

Because he’s right. I am here. Because I chose to be. Because I trusted her. Trusted us. Because there’s no way to bring down a kingdom unless you bleed in its throne room first.

“You know what I think?” Roman says, voice like velvet wrapped around a knife. “I think you’re trying to play both sides. I think you don’t know who the hell you are, and you think sleeping with my daughter gives you an identity.”

“Maybe I just want to watch your empire burn,” I shoot back.

He doesn’t flinch.

“Then let me give you the match,” he says. “But you light it on my terms.”

I narrow my eyes. “Why?”

“Because your father would’ve done the same. And because you’re more valuable alive and angry than dead in a ditch.”

He stands again and walks to the wall behind him. Taps on a frame.

A hidden panel slides open.

Inside: a photograph.

I rise slowly, step closer.

It’s me. At maybe five years old. Standing in front of a man I don’t remember.

But his hand is on my shoulder, and the expression on his face is cold. Calculating. Familiar.

“That’s your father,” Roman says. “His name was Semyon. Your mother was collateral. She never made it past your sixth birthday.”

I stare at the photo.

Something stirs in my chest. Not grief. Not rage. Recognition. Some buried part of me remembers the weight of that hand. The smell of vodka and smoke. The sting of discipline wrapped in a lie called loyalty.

“I don’t want to be like him,” I whisper.

“Then don’t,” Roman says. “Be like me instead.”

I turn to him.

“You’re offering me a seat at your table?”

“I’m offering you survival.”

“And what do I have to do?”

“Prove yourself. Follow orders. Leave the past where it belongs.”

“And Alana?”

He looks at me, something darker in his gaze.

“She’s already proved her loyalty.”

I don’t answer. I just nod. I’ll play the part. For now.

Back in my room, the guards lock the door behind me. I sit on the edge of the bed, heart pounding.

The photo. The pitch. The threats. All of it spins in my mind like a slow descent into hell. But the most important thing? Roman believes I’m considering it. Which means the door is still open. Which means we still have time.

I go to the vent near the bed and unscrew the cover. I wedge the frame open just enough to hide the small burner phone Alana gave me.

I type a message.

Z: He offered me a seat.

Three dots. Then:

Alana: And?

Z: I didn’t say yes. But I didn’t say no.

Alana: That’s enough.

Z: He said you proved your loyalty. What did you do?

There’s a long pause.

Alana: I lied with a straight face. I didn’t flinch. That’s all he wanted.

I let out a slow breath.

Z: We’re still good?

Alana: We’re fireproof.

And somehow, that’s the first thing that makes me smile in days.