All Chapters of BLOOD AND ROSES: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

Isabella’s POV Crimson paint slid from the end of my brush like fresh-spilled blood, placing towards the stark white of the canvas. I stepped back, wiping my arms at the apron that changed into already a battlefield of vintage stains, my armor towards the chaos that came with growing something raw. This painting felt different. Darker. Truer. Shapes bent and twisted across the space, figures caught mid-motion, their faces locked in agony and something disturbingly close to pleasure. It was the closest I’d ever come to putting my own insides on display. The ViewArt Gallery’s end-of-year exhibition. Just thinking about it sent a spark racing through me. Damian Moretti’s company hosted the most important art event in New York. That was where real artists showed their work, not sheltered mafia princesses playing with brushes. If this piece made it in, maybe people would finally see me as more than Antonio Russo’s daughter. Papa would never let me go alone. He barely let me breathe w

Damain's POV The rays of the morning sun had sharp shadows crossing the mahogany polished table and I looked at the faces of my board directors. Not only were they business partners, they were the creators of my legitimate empire, the men who assisted in making blood money into legitimate means of revenue. "The European markets are ripe for expansion," Harrison, my head of international operations, was saying. His PowerPoint slides showed projected profits that would make most Fortune 500 companies weep with envy. "Our hotel chains in London and Paris are performing beyond expectations, and the art acquisition business is opening doors we never imagined." Art acquisition. The irony wasn't lost on me. Some of the world's most valuable paintings now hung in my private collection, acquired through methods that would make auction houses very uncomfortable. But money had a way of washing away inconvenient questions about provenance. "What about the shipping routes through the Medi

Isabella's POVHer father.Her father had sold her as a shield, a bargaining chip, a bridge between empires. And Damian Moretti hadn’t married her to unite families or even to strengthen his empire. No—he had married her as a blade. A weapon aimed at Antonio Russo’s heart.And she was the perfect delivery system.Her hands trembled. Inside the ballroom, a toast erupted, guests laughing as champagne frothed over crystal rims. They thought they were celebrating a union, a new era. But out here, Isabella knew the truth: they were celebrating the beginning of the end.She pressed her lips together, swallowing the bile that rose in her throat.Footsteps echoed from inside—the faint shuffle of servers, the murmur of another group approaching the balcony. Damian ended the call, sliding the phone into his pocket with a predator’s ease. His gaze shifted toward the doorway.Panic surged in her chest. She had seconds—seconds to decide whether to confront him now, to throw his words in his face,

The Moretti mansion woke early. By the time sunrise filtered through the lofty windows, the hallways were already alive with the gentle cadence of staff—shoes on marble, pots clattering faintly in the kitchen, and hushed whispers floating through the corridors.Isabella lingered on the grand staircase’s landing, her silk robe pooling around her feet. She listened. The house breathed. And if she listened properly, it might reveal its secrets.She descended slowly, trailing her hand along the banister. It was cool, polished, unyielding. Like everything in this house, it had been built to impress and intimidate. She wondered how many generations of Morettis had passed through these halls, how many whispers had been silenced within these walls.The scent of garlic and strong coffee led her into the kitchen. Maria stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, her hands dusted with flour. She kneaded dough with the calm resolve of someone who had weathered storms far greater than flour and water

It was quiet in the car.Damian sat beside her in the backseat, his profile carved from shadow and glass. The world outside blurred by—streetlights, storefronts, the restless pulse of the city—but Isabella’s gaze clung to his reflection in the tinted window. Sharp. Unreadable. A face that gave nothing away and yet seemed to know everything.He hadn’t told her where they were going. Only that she should wear something simple. The instruction had set her pulse racing. Brides were paraded. Pawns were shifted. This was neither.“Are you anxious?” His voice came sudden, smooth, slicing through the silence.“No,” she lied.A thin, humorless smile brushed his mouth. “Good. Fear is blood in the water. The wrong men smell it, and they never stop circling.”The car slowed. They turned down a narrow street lined with shuttered shops. Ahead, a warehouse loomed—iron doors scarred with rust, windows grimy with age. A pair of men smoked outside, their posture too rigid to be casual. Sentinels.The g