blood and vows

THE BLOOD OATH

Snow drifted through the ruined courtyard like ashes from a dying world.

The storm had quieted, but the silence it left behind was heavier than thunder. Every sound seemed swallowed by grief. Every breath tasted like loss.

Isabella knelt in the snow, her hands stained with Lorenzo’s dried blood, her clothes torn, her face streaked with sorrow. But her eyes—her eyes were fire.

Because Marco wasn’t dead.

Not yet.

And she would not let the man who murdered Lorenzo disappear into the shadows.

Lucio approached quietly, his expression a hollow echo of everything broken inside him.

“He’s in the warehouse,” Lucio said. “Cornered. Bleeding out. But still fighting.”

Isabella didn’t move.

Lucio knelt beside her. “Isabella… I know you want to—”

She lifted her head slowly.

Her voice was low. Steady. Deadly.

“I’m going with you.”

Lucio inhaled sharply. “You’re exhausted. You haven’t slept, you haven’t eaten—”

“You think I care?” she whispered. “Marco killed the man I love.”

Lucio’s jaw tensed.

“He didn’t just kill him,” Isabella added, voice breaking for the first time, “he destroyed him. He tore his life apart piece by piece. He tormented him. He stabbed him with every memory, every betrayal, every guilt Lorenzo carried.”

Lucio’s throat tightened.

“So tell me, Lucio,” she asked, eyes turning sharper, colder. “Why the hell would I stay here?”

Lucio had no answer.

Because there wasn’t one.

He nodded once.

A silent pact.

A blood oath.

Isabella stood, her body trembling—whether from cold, grief, or rage, no one could tell. She wrapped her arms around herself, not for warmth, but as if holding the last pieces of her heart together.

“We end this,” she whispered.

Lucio looked at her for a long time.

“I swear,” he said, voice gravel and emotion, “we finish it together.”

They walked to the SUVs.

Behind them, the wind blew across the courtyard, scattering snow over the bloodstains Lorenzo left behind.

As if the world itself was trying to erase him.

But Isabella didn’t look back.

She couldn’t.

---

THE WAREHOUSE

The building loomed like a dead titan against the night sky—rusted metal, broken windows, shadows shifting like ghosts inside.

The De Luca soldiers secured the perimeter but kept their distance.

They knew who this belonged to.

Lucio and Isabella stepped inside.

The metal door slammed shut behind them.

The warehouse was dark except for one broken skylight where moonlight dripped in like silver blood.

And beneath that cold beam—

Marco sat on the ground, leaning against a steel pillar, one hand pressed to his abdomen, blood seeping through his fingers.

But he smiled.

A cracked, wild, broken smile.

“I thought Lorenzo would come,” he rasped. “But you’ll do.”

Isabella’s breath hitched.

Her chest constricted.

Not from fear.

From the sudden, violent desire to hurt him.

Lucio stepped in front of her instinctively. “Don’t even breathe in her direction.”

Marco chuckled, spit tinged with red. “So protective, little Lucio. Just like him.”

Lucio’s fists clenched.

“Where is he?” Marco asked softly. “Where is my brother?”

Isabella didn’t trust her voice.

Lucio did.

“He’s gone, Marco.”

Marco blinked once.

Twice.

Then laughed—loud, hysterical, echoing off the metal walls.

“You? You expect me to believe that Lorenzo De Luca died from a shot I fired? My brother? The one who could break a man’s spine but wouldn’t kill me when he had the chance?”

His smile faded.

“He’s not dead.”

Isabella stepped forward, her voice slicing through the air.

“He died protecting me.”

Marco’s expression froze.

As if those words stabbed deeper than any blade.

“He died,” Isabella continued, voice trembling with fury, “because of you.”

Marco’s jaw clenched.

His eyes shimmered—not with pain, not with regret, but with something far darker.

“Good,” he whispered.

Lucio exploded forward, grabbing Marco by the collar and slamming him against the steel pillar.

“You sick fu—”

“Lucio.” Isabella’s voice was quiet. “Let him talk.”

Lucio hesitated.

But stepped back.

Marco turned his head, blood dripping from his mouth.

“You want to know why I hate him?” Marco said. “Why I destroyed everything he loved? Why I turned the entire world against him?”

Lucio glared. “We don’t care.”

But Isabella did.

She stayed silent.

Marco lifted his head slowly, eyes hollow.

“Because he took everything from me.”

He laughed once—sharp, bitter, broken.

“Our father chose him.”

Silence.

“That’s it?” Lucio snarled. “That’s your reason? Jealousy?”

Marco’s smile cracked.

“No. Not jealousy. Destiny.”

He coughed violently, blood splattering the floor.

“He was the chosen heir. The favorite. The golden son. And I… I was the insurance.”

His voice grew low.

Cold.

“I was meant to die for him.”

Isabella’s heart stopped.

Lucio’s face paled.

Marco continued, “Our father told me when I was twelve. He said, ‘Marco, your life belongs to Lorenzo. If the day ever comes when he needs a body to bury, you’ll give yours.’”

Lucio stumbled backward slightly.

Isabella stared at Marco—really stared.

This wasn’t just madness.

This was trauma.

Twisted. Weaponized. Corrupted.

“So I made sure,” Marco said, voice trembling, “that if anyone died first… it would be him.”

For the first time, Isabella felt something she never expected:

Pity.

But it vanished the moment Marco lifted a gun from behind his leg.

He fired.

Lucio shoved Isabella out of the way.

The bullet grazed Lucio’s shoulder.

Blood sprayed.

Lucio collapsed with a grunt.

Marco aimed again—

Isabella grabbed a fallen metal pipe, swung it with every ounce of rage and grief inside her—

And slammed it into Marco’s wrist.

The gun clattered to the floor.

Marco screamed.

Isabella didn’t stop.

She swung again.

And again.

And again.

Until Marco toppled sideways, gasping, blood pooling beneath him.

She raised the pipe for a final blow.

“Isabella—”

Lucio’s voice.

Weak.

Pained.

But steady.

“Don’t.”

Her hands trembled.

Her breath came in ragged bursts.

Marco coughed, looking up at her with a broken grin.

“You don’t… have the darkness… for this.”

Isabella exhaled.

Slowly.

Calmly.

“I don’t need darkness,” she whispered. “I have justice.”

She dropped the pipe.

Lucio staggered to his feet, pressing his hand to his bleeding shoulder.

Marco slumped back, defeated.

Exhausted.

Barely breathing.

“So this is it,” he rasped. “The last De Luca. Dying on a warehouse floor.”

Lucio stared at him.

“No,” Lucio said. “The last De Luca died tonight.”

Marco frowned—

Then froze.

Because Lucio pulled out his gun.

Isabella’s eyes widened.

“Lucio—no—”

Lucio’s voice was barely a whisper.

“For Lorenzo.”

One shot.

Marco’s body jerked—and went still.

Silence swallowed the warehouse.

Lucio lowered the gun.

His hands shook.

Isabella covered her mouth, tears falling silently.

It was over.

Finally… over.

But the victory tasted like ashes.

Lucio approached Marco’s body, staring down with a mix of hatred and devastation.

Then he whispered,

“Goodbye, brother.”

Isabella walked to him slowly.

“Lucio…”

He turned.

And without warning—

He broke.

He collapsed into her arms, sobbing against her shoulder, gripping her like a man lost at sea.

“I tried,” he whispered. “I tried to protect him. Both of them. I failed.”

Isabella held him tightly.

“You didn’t fail,” she whispered. “You ended the nightmare.”

Lucio cried harder.

Not for Marco.

Not for himself.

But for Lorenzo.

For the brother he lost. For the family that shattered. For the future that vanished in the snow.

When Lucio finally pulled away, his eyes were red but steady.

“We need to go,” he said. “There’s still the council. The enemies Marco made. The alliances he broke. There will be retaliation.”

Isabella nodded.

Her voice soft. Determined.

“Then we rebuild.”

Lucio hesitated.

Looked at her.

Really looked.

“You sound like him.”

Isabella smiled through her tears.

“I loved him,” she whispered. “I learned from him.”

They stepped out into the cold night.

Leaving Marco’s body behind.

Leaving blood.

Leaving pain.

Leaving the end of a legacy—

And the beginning of another.

Because even though Lorenzo was gone…

His story wasn’t.