blood and vows

THE DEVIL’S DEBT

The mansion was wrapped in an eerie quiet, the kind that didn’t soothe but suffocated. Night had fallen hours ago, yet no one inside the walls dared to sleep. Every guard was awake. Every gun was loaded. Every light stayed on. Fear moved through the air like smoke, curling into corners and shadows.

Isabella felt it most.

She sat beside the window of the guest room Lorenzo had moved her into—a room closer to his office, closer to his guards, closer to him. Her fingers trembled as she traced the outline of the bruises on her wrists. They stung when she pressed them, but the pain reminded her she was alive.

Alive… even though Marco wanted her dead.

Or worse.

Her breath wavered. She hugged her knees tightly to her chest, staring at the moon outside. The forest beyond the mansion swayed with the wind, but in her mind, she heard footsteps… Marco’s footsteps. She heard the scrape of rope against wood. His chilling laugh. The whisper he left her with:

“Lorenzo will bleed for this.”

A shudder ripped through her.

“Isabella?”

Lucio’s voice broke the silence as he gently pushed her door open.

“You keep coming back,” she whispered without looking up.

“And I’ll keep doing it,” he replied, stepping in. “You scared us all. I thought…” His voice cracked slightly before he caught himself. “Never mind. Everything is under control now.”

She gave a weak laugh. “Nothing is under control.”

Lucio wanted to argue, but the words died on his tongue. Instead, he sat beside her on the bed.

“We found two of Marco’s men,” he said quietly. “They were left near the gate… tied, beaten, and barely breathing.”

Isabella’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “Marco did that?”

“No.” Lucio swallowed. “Lorenzo did.”

Isabella’s heart slammed against her ribs.

Lorenzo had moved quicker than she thought.

Lucio continued, “He wanted to send a message.”

“To who?”

“To everyone.”

Isabella stared at the moon again, but the ache in her chest grew.

Marco had touched her. Marco had taken her. Marco had threatened her.

And Lorenzo was going to start a war for it.

Before she could speak again, footsteps approached—the kind she recognized instantly. Heavy, controlled, and unmistakably purposeful.

Lucio stood. “That’s him. I’ll leave you two.”

The door opened fully.

Don Lorenzo entered.

He was still wearing the same black shirt from the rescue, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a dark stain on the cuff she suspected wasn’t his blood. His eyes scanned her immediately, as though checking she was truly there, truly safe.

“Come with me,” he said.

His voice wasn’t sharp this time. It was low… almost gentle.

But it carried a weight that made refusal impossible.

Isabella rose without arguing.

Lucio slipped out quietly as Lorenzo led her down the hallway, his hand hovering near her back—not touching, but close enough that she felt his presence like warmth against her skin.

The mansion was different tonight. Guards stood at every turn, more than she had ever seen before. Some carried rifles instead of pistols. Some had bulletproof vests she didn’t recognize. A few murmured into radios as she passed, their eyes flickering toward her with worry and something like pity.

Lorenzo opened the door to his private office and stepped aside so she could enter first.

She hesitated.

She had never been allowed inside before. His office was sacred to him. Private. A place where he bared nothing and trusted no one.

Yet tonight, he wanted her there.

She walked in.

The room was dim. A single lamp cast a gold glow across the table where a map was spread. Red marks circled buildings across the city—Marco’s known hideouts, rumored safe houses, past attack sites.

But what caught her eye was the photo pinned to the table.

Marco.

A red X slashed across his face.

Her stomach clenched.

Lorenzo closed the door behind them, locking it.

“Sit,” he said softly.

She did.

He walked around the desk and leaned against it, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched her. His face was unreadable—cold as stone, yet his eyes burned with something darker than fire.

“Do you know why I brought you here?” he asked.

Isabella shook her head.

He stepped closer. “Because I need you to hear the truth.”

She swallowed, nodding slowly.

Lorenzo exhaled. “Marco didn’t kidnap you to hurt you.”

She flinched.

“He kidnapped you to hurt me.”

Her breath caught.

“He wanted to break me,” Lorenzo continued, voice steady. “He wanted to force me into a mistake. He wanted to put me in a position where I’d act on emotion.”

She whispered, “Did you?”

He didn’t answer.

She already knew.

Instead, he leaned down slightly until his eyes were level with hers.

“Isabella… I owe Marco a debt.”

Her chest tightened painfully. “What kind of debt?”

“The kind written in blood.”

She shook her head quickly. “Please don’t—”

“It’s already done,” he said, cutting her off gently. “He crossed a line he should never have touched.”

Her voice trembled. “I don’t want people dying because of me.”

“This isn’t because of you,” he corrected. “It’s because of him. Because he dared to challenge me. Because he dared to touch something that belongs under my protection.”

The word “belongs” made her heartbeat stumble.

“Lorenzo,” she whispered, “don’t start a war because of me.”

He stepped closer, close enough that she felt his breath against her skin.

“This isn’t a war I’m starting,” he murmured.

“It’s a war he asked for.”

Silence stretched between them—heavy, fragile.

Her voice cracked. “I’m scared.”

His expression shifted. The hard edges softened. The steel melted into something almost tender.

“Come here,” he said quietly.

She didn’t move.

He took another step, closing the distance himself.

He didn’t touch her—he hovered, always giving her the chance to retreat. But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

“I will protect you,” he said softly, “with everything I have.”

“Even if it kills you?” she whispered.

“Yes.”

Her throat tightened. Tears pricked her eyes before she could stop them.

His face changed.

He reached up—slowly—and wiped a tear with his thumb.

“Don’t cry,” he said. “Not for him.”

“I’m not crying for him.”

He went still.

“Then who?” he asked quietly.

She didn’t answer.

She didn’t have to.

Lorenzo let out a slow, shaky breath and stepped back, forcing distance between them before he acted on something he knew he shouldn’t.

“We will strike at dawn,” he said, regaining his cold composure. “I’m sending three teams to sweep Marco’s safehouses. He won’t run far. Not this time.”

“And if he hurts someone else?” Isabella asked.

“He won’t get the chance.”

---

Marco

Across the city, deep in an abandoned factory, Marco sharpened his knife with a smile. The metallic scrape echoed through the empty structure.

“So, he found the men I left behind,” he muttered.

“Good. Let him think he’s winning.”

His second-in-command paced nervously. “Boss… Lorenzo is coming for you.”

Marco laughed. “I’m counting on it.”

He lifted the knife, admiring the blade’s edge.

“Because this time,” he whispered, “I’ll be ready for him.”

---

Back at the Mansion

Lorenzo’s lieutenants gathered in the main hall as he issued quiet, deadly instructions. Weapons were distributed. Vehicles prepared. Routes memorized.

Lucio approached him. “The teams are ready.”

“Good.”

“But Lorenzo…” Lucio hesitated. “You’re doing this for her.”

Lorenzo froze.

“If anyone finds out,” Lucio continued, lowering his voice, “they’ll use her against you. Again.”

A dangerous silence filled the air.

“Then I’ll end every man who tries,” Lorenzo replied calmly.

Lucio swallowed.

The matter was closed.

---

Isabella

She returned to her room, though sleeping felt impossible. Every creak, every footstep in the hallway sent her into panic. Her heart raced until her chest hurt.

Around 3 a.m., she gave up on trying to sleep and sat back at the window, watching the guards below pace with rifles slung across their backs.

A soft knock made her jump.

“It’s me,” Lorenzo said from the other side.

She opened the door slowly.

He was still awake, still dressed, still carrying his gun. But there was something new in his eyes—an exhaustion no one else would have noticed.

“You should rest,” she said.

“So should you.”

She looked down. “I can’t.”

He stepped inside.

The air shifted the moment he crossed the threshold. The room felt smaller, heavier, warmer.

“Are you still afraid he’ll return tonight?” he asked.

She nodded.

“You don’t have to be.”

He walked past her and sat in the chair near her door.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

“Staying here until you fall asleep.”

She blinked. “Outside the door was enough.”

“Not tonight.”

Her breath shook. “Why?”

He looked at her for a long moment.

“Because I need to know you’re safe,” he said.

“Because if something happened to you again… I wouldn’t survive it.”

Her heart stopped.

He looked away quickly, as if he’d said too much.

As if the truth slipped out before he could cage it.

“Sleep,” he said.

And for the first time since Marco kidnapped her…

She actually could.

She climbed into bed slowly, watching Lorenzo as he leaned back in the chair, gun resting loosely in his hand, eyes half-closed but alert.

She whispered, barely audible,

“Thank you.”

His voice came back, low and rough,

“You owe me nothing, Isabella.”

She drifted into sleep listening to the sound of his breathing—steady, protective, dangerous.

---

The Debt Comes Due

As dawn approached, the mansion stirred with the first movements of war. Engines roared. Doors slammed. Boots thundered down hallways.

Lorenzo stood outside Isabella’s room, staring at her sleeping form one last time before he left.

Marco had written a debt in fear.

Lorenzo would repay it in blood.

The devil was waiting.

And Lorenzo was ready to meet him.