The Blood That Started It All

Chapter 1: The Blood That Started It All

The past never fades. It lingers like the scent of gunpowder and the taste of blood, clinging to Isla Romano’s soul.

She was sixteen when she watched her father die.

The night was cold, the cobblestone street slick with rain, reflecting the city lights in eerie streaks of gold and crimson. The Romano estate, once a fortress, now stood vulnerable under the weight of betrayal. The scent of iron filled the air. The world slowed as Isla’s father, Emilio Romano, fell to his knees, blood seeping into the ground beneath him.

Antonio DeLuca stood above him, a pistol in hand, his expression impassive. There was no pleasure in his gaze—only the cold efficiency of a man who had done this too many times before.

A lesson. A warning. A punishment.

"You should have stayed in your place, Emilio," Antonio said, his voice like steel cutting through the silence.

Her father looked up, his once-powerful frame trembling, yet his eyes held no fear—only defiance.

"You’ll regret this," Emilio rasped. "One day, my children will—"

The gunshot silenced him.

The world tilted. Isla's mother screamed—a raw, agonized sound that made her ears ring. Isla felt herself moving, lunging forward, but strong arms locked around her, dragging her back.

"Let me go!" she cried, struggling against the grip.

Her elder brother, Alessandro—Alex—held her tight, his voice a whisper in her ear. "Not now. We can’t—Isla, we have to go!"

Tears blurred her vision as she watched the blood pool beneath her father’s body. Antonio DeLuca turned, slipping the gun into his coat, as if the act of murder was nothing more than an inconvenience.

He walked away, his men following in his shadow.

The Romano family was no longer a dynasty. They were nothing.

That was the night Isla vowed revenge.

"Blood for blood," Alex had whispered in the dark. "We will make them pay."

Years had passed. Isla was no longer that helpless girl.

Now, she was a weapon.

And she was about to step into the lion’s den.

Eight Years Later

The Plan Begins

Inferno was more than a club—it was an empire.

Nestled in the heart of the city, it was a haven for the rich and powerful, a place where secrets were bought and sold, where pleasure and danger danced in the same breath. Owned by the DeLuca family, Inferno was a kingdom of sin, and its king ruled from the shadows.

Dante DeLuca. The son of Antonio

The man she had spent years studying. The heir to the DeLuca empire. Ruthless, dangerous, and untouchable.

Tonight, she would meet him for the first time.

But not as Isla Romano.

Bella Caruso.

That was the name she had chosen. The identity she had carefully crafted. She had spent years preparing—changing her appearance, erasing any trace of her past, learning how to blend into the world of men like Dante DeLuca.

And now, she was here.

Dressed in a sleek black dress that clung to her curves, Isla—Bella—moved through the dimly lit club with practiced ease. The scent of whiskey and expensive cigars filled the air, mingling with the low thrum of music. The energy in the room was electric, a current of power and danger running through the veins of every man present.

She had been working here for two weeks, carefully positioning herself in the heart of DeLuca territory. Tonight, he was here.

And he was watching her.

She felt it before she saw him.

The weight of his gaze. The way the air seemed to shift, thickening with something dark and consuming.

Dante DeLuca sat in the VIP section, his presence commanding even in silence. He leaned back in his seat, one arm draped casually over the back of the couch, his fingers tapping idly against his glass of whiskey.

Dark hair. Sharp jaw. Cold, calculating eyes that missed nothing.

A predator watching his prey.

Her pulse remained steady. She had trained for this.

She moved to the bar, picking up a tray of drinks, her mask flawless. She was just another server, another woman in a sea of bodies.

But Dante saw her.

And then, it happened.

A drunk VIP grabbed her wrist.

"Come on, sweetheart," he slurred, pulling her close. "Sit with me."

His grip was rough, his breath thick with whiskey.

She could have played it safe. Could have smiled, let it go.

But she wasn’t that girl.

She twisted out of his grip, her voice cutting through the music. "You can’t afford me."

Gasps rippled through the nearby tables. The VIP’s face darkened with anger.

And then, a voice. Low. Lethal.

"Let her go."

The room went silent.

Dante DeLuca had spoken.

The VIP paled instantly. "Dante, I—"

"Leave."

One word. Absolute.

The man stumbled away, and suddenly, Isla found herself trapped under the weight of Dante’s gaze.

A slow, lazy smirk played at his lips, but there was no amusement in his eyes. Only interest.

“What’s your name?”

She hesitated.

Careful. Always careful.

"Bella."

He tilted his head slightly, as if testing the way her name tasted on his tongue.

"Bella." He repeated it slowly, deliberately.

Then, his smirk deepened, something dark flickering in his eyes.

"Interesting."

Her pulse thrummed.

She had gotten his attention.

But she wasn’t sure if she had just stepped into a trap…

Or set one.

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End of Chapter 1