The Price of Blood
The sun had barely crested the skyline when the Moretti convoy rolled back into the city. Black cars, shattered windows, streaked with blood and smoke — they looked less like victors and more like survivors crawling home from hell.
Elena sat pressed against Lucian in the backseat. His arm was around her shoulders, but his grip was loose, absent. His gaze stayed fixed out the window, jaw clenched so hard a vein throbbed at his temple.
Isabella had cried herself to sleep in Elena's lap, her small face streaked with tears. Elena stroked her hair gently, but her eyes stayed on Lucian.
He hadn't spoken since Dante fell.
The silence was louder than gunfire.
---
Back at the Moretti estate, the household was a battlefield of its own — nurses rushing in, men limping from wounds, women weeping for husbands who hadn't returned. The air reeked of antiseptic, sweat, and grief.
Lucian strode through it all without breaking stride. He barked orders to his underbosses, voice low and lethal, but never once did his eyes soften. His bloodied shirt clung to his body, a scarlet reminder of the war he'd survived — and won.
But winning didn't feel like victory.
Enzo's body was carried inside, laid across a table draped in white. Men bowed their heads. Some cursed, others prayed. Lucian stood over him for a long time, his face unreadable. Finally, he pulled off the bloodstained ring from Enzo's finger and placed it in Elena's palm.
"Keep it," he said hoarsely. "For Isabella. She should know who saved her life tonight."
Elena's throat tightened. She wanted to comfort him, but she saw it in his eyes — the iron wall rising again. He wouldn't allow himself to grieve, not yet.
---
That night, the estate was eerily quiet. The survivors either slept from exhaustion or drowned themselves in whiskey and silence.
Lucian sat in his office, the fire throwing shadows across his face. A glass of bourbon rested untouched in his hand. On the desk lay a dossier — Dante's empire, now ashes. Ports seized. Safehouses burned. Men scattered. The war was over.
So why did his chest feel so hollow?
A soft knock broke the silence.
"Lucian?" Elena's voice drifted through the door.
"Come in."
She entered, draped in a silk robe, her hair loose around her shoulders. The sight of her should have been his balm. Instead, it deepened the ache in his chest.
She crossed the room slowly, her eyes never leaving him. "You haven't eaten. Haven't slept."
"I don't need to."
"Yes, you do." She touched his arm, her voice trembling. "Lucian, you can't carry all of this alone. You've lost men. You've taken lives. You've—"
"I've kept you safe," he cut in sharply, his eyes flashing. "That's all that matters."
Her breath hitched. "At what cost?"
The question hung heavy between them.
Lucian slammed the bourbon onto the desk, liquid spilling over the edge. "Don't talk to me about cost. Every drop of blood, every body that hit the ground tonight—it was the price of keeping you and Isabella alive. If I had to do it again, I'd burn the world twice over."
Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn't back away. "And when there's nothing left of you? When all that's left is rage and ruin? What then, Lucian?"
For the first time, he faltered. His hand trembled where it rested on the desk.
Elena stepped closer, her palms pressing against his chest. She could feel his heart, a wild drum beneath her hands. "I don't want the king, or the monster, or the devil they all fear. I want the man who held Isabella when she was scared. The man who chose me over vengeance when he could have killed Dante right then. That's the man I love."
His throat worked, but no words came.
Finally, he gripped her wrists, pressing her hands harder against his chest. His voice was raw. "I don't know if I can be that man anymore."
She rose on her toes, her lips brushing his ear. "Then let me remind you."
Her kiss was desperate, fierce, demanding. At first he resisted, his body rigid with the weight of the night. But slowly, painfully, the wall cracked. His arms closed around her, crushing her against him. He kissed her back like a drowning man clawing for air.
For one fragile moment, vengeance and war melted away, leaving only them.
---
But outside that room, shadows stirred.
In the east wing of the estate, a man knelt before a flickering candle, whispering into a burner phone. His voice was low, trembling.
"Yes… Dante is dead. Moretti killed him."
A pause.
"No, he doesn't know yet. About the other one. About who really pulled the strings."
The man's hand shook as he ended the call, sweat dripping down his temple. He pocketed the phone and blew out the candle, his face swallowed by the dark.
The war with Dante Marino had ended.
But a greater storm was coming.