Manoir Vendetta Novels & Stories

, she tutted and landed a roundhouse kick, sending the big man crashing down and the crowd going crazy. Vendetta. A band of the world's most dangerous assassins, trained with different methods that they could kill with a gentle touch. People called it the Hell Hall fraternity for various reasons that have everything to do with their torture techniques. Not only the most skilled assassins but also the most skilled psychologists and just about every God damn profession.

It was impossible to come out of the house in a jiffy. We walked until we finally got to the main gate and his car was already waiting for us. We both settled into the car “To Herpen-abort; The main warehouse” Gladimir said to the driver and he drove straight to the mansion. It wasn't an easy ride at all, but he had no choice, that was among the reasons why he was being paid.

Their numbers never reduced, despite having walked around the borders of the Blue Moon Pack. Morfran could already see it. He would be able to take his Arabella back, and not only that! He could take Gunner and his daughter too, make slaves out of them and a whore out of Lana. But prior to leaving that day, he swore to wreak havoc in the lands of the Port of Valmore, and what better way to do it than to destroy the Valmore ancestral home? He swore to not only burn it down to the ground but kill every werewolf that rested under its roof.

His expression unreadable. But it was his eyes that froze her. Cold gray. Controlled. Familiar. “Lucien,” Camille said brightly, “there’s someone I want you to meet.” The man turned slowly. And the world tilted. Because she knew that face. Not the refined version standing before her not the billionaire aura that radiated quiet authority. But the eyes. The same eyes that once sat at the back of a lecture hall. The same eyes that watched while she laughed. “Venice Laurent,” Camille continued cheerfully, unaware of the storm forming between them. “This is Lucien Moreau. The owner of the château. And the man who practically funded this entire event.”

“Alaric, it’s past midnight.” “I’m aware. That’s when doctors and broken-hearted men drink,” Alaric replied. “Which one are you tonight?” “I might be both.” “Even better. Join me. I had a bottle of that aged noir from the southern cellars opened. I’ll be at the manor. Come breathe before you lose yourself in whatever storm is brewing inside that head.” Caveen hesitated only a moment before nodding. “On my way.” — Vaelthorne Manor stood proud and elegant on a mist-wreathed hill, its stained-glass windows glowing like jewels under moonlight. The estate bore the mark of the Vellaria lineage—ancient, noble, and steeped in both human and hidden supernatural bloodlines.

The moonlight over Lake Como was a liquid silver mirror, reflecting the jagged, snow – capped peaks of the Alps. Tucked away in a private cove, accessible only by water or a heavily guarded mountain pass, sat Villa Moretti. It was a sprawling, neo – classical masterpiece of lemon – hued stone and white marble. Its tiered gardens cascaded down to the dark water like a frozen waterfall.

“You’re never going back to that university without me. Never visiting anyone without my men watching. You’re mine to protect. Mine to punish. Mine to fuck until you forget anyone else exists.” I was angry, terrified, and shamefully, addictively intrigued by the intensity rolling off him. Hours later- or what felt like it- the car finally slowed. The door opened onto a world of salt and marble and obscene money. Cold wind whipped off the Mediterranean, sharp enough to cut skin. The Valente estate rose like a fortress carved from nightmares and dreams- three stories of black glass and white stone, terraces dripping with vibrant bougainvillea, armed men stationed at every corner pretending the

“Your birth father. My half-brother. We shared a father and a roof. But we were different creatures.” I leaned back. It shouldn’t have shocked me after everything I’d learned recently, that she was this skilled, but it did. She nodded. I blinked, trying to process it all. Everything unraveling before me, even the name Moretti that I was still trying to get used to. A name whispered in mafia circles like the punchline of a myth. “And what does the Moretti family want from me?” I asked. “To give you what’s yours.” The car curved along a narrow mountain road, revealing a villa in the distance. It rose from the cliffside like something out of a forgotten legend—half fortress, half dream. Ivy cra

One of them eyed her small car like it was a joke. “Name?” the taller one asked in Italian, brows furrowed. She swallowed. “Amara Voss.” They exchanged a glance. The gate opened with a groan that reminded her of coffins. And then she was in. --- The Moretti estate was not a house. It was a fortress. Stone walls surrounded a Roman-style villa that looked like it had survived wars and built empires. The driveway was lined with flame-lit torches, dancing in the wind like warnings. Marble statues stared at her, lifeless eyes watching, judging.

Bouchard Francisca is the next to speak up followed by Mrs Bailey’s; Chloe’s Mother glare. I owe them no explanation, but I dofeign a smile, relishing on the irritation of their faces. After all they are the reason I returned, because one of them seated around this table, killed my father, it was in his last letter before he died. Unfortunately, Ethan is not excluded. "How do we know you're not here to revenge your father?" Bailey, Chole's Mother states. And I smile, despite my fingers are balled to a fist, and I'm about to speak when a hand covers mine, giving it a light stroke.