Chapter 43: Bloodlines and Betrayals

The choker hugged Sophia’s neck like a second skin—dark, glinting, and symbolic. A mark of ownership to the world. A mark of *power* to Rafael.

She stood before a towering mirror in the estate’s dressing chamber, her red dress molded to every curve, her lips a deeper scarlet than blood. The ruby at her throat pulsed like a heartbeat.

Behind her, Rafael leaned in, lips brushing her ear. “When they see you tonight, they’ll see the woman who burned empires to the ground.”

Sophia met his eyes in the mirror. “And you’ll be the man who handed me the torch.”

He smirked, pulling her hips back into him. “They’ll never see the knife you keep under your smile.”

She smiled, sharp and seductive.

Tonight was the DeLuca gala.

And she was going in as bait.

**

The ballroom of the DeLuca estate glistened like something from a twisted fairytale—golden chandeliers, velvet drapes, and a sea of black suits and glittering gowns.

But beneath the glamor was rot.

Sophia could feel it.

Every smile was forced. Every laugh brittle. The air buzzed with secrets and sin.

She walked in on Rafael’s arm, their presence commanding attention. Conversations paused. Eyes followed.

“Who is she?” someone whispered.

“His mistress?”

“His queen,” came the reply.

Sophia’s gaze swept the room like a sniper surveying a battlefield.

Then she saw him.

Salvatore DeLuca.

Older than Rafael, but not weaker. Dressed in a midnight suit, a scar along his jaw like a slash of fate. He held a whiskey glass with the calm confidence of a man who believed he owned the world.

And maybe once, he did.

Now? He was looking at *her* like she was the ghost of a debt long unpaid.

He approached, smiling.

“Sophia Maren,” he said, voice smooth like silk over poison. “You look… radiant.”

She didn’t offer her hand. “Alive, too. Sorry to disappoint.”

He chuckled. “Your father stole from me. Lied to me. Hid you.”

“And now I’m property to be reclaimed?”

“Not property,” he corrected. “Legacy. Blood. You were promised.”

Rafael stepped forward. “She was *stolen*—but not by you.”

Tension cracked in the air like static.

Salvatore's smile didn’t falter. “Do you think fucking her makes her yours?”

Sophia didn’t flinch.

Instead, she reached up and slowly unhooked the choker from her neck, holding it up for Salvatore to see.

“Do you know what this is?” she asked.

Salvatore narrowed his eyes.

“It’s a leash *I chose.* A collar I wear *because I want to.*”

She dropped it into her clutch and stepped closer to him, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

“Try and take me,” she said, “and I’ll gut you in front of your men and wear your blood like perfume.”

Gasps rippled. Someone dropped a champagne glass.

Salvatore’s eyes glittered. “You’ve become quite the mouth.”

Sophia smiled. “You haven’t even seen what I do with it.”

**

Back at the safehouse, chaos reigned.

Matteo, Rafael’s right-hand man, burst into the room, slamming a USB stick on the table.

“Surveillance caught something. You need to see this.”

Rafael played the video.

Footage from the gala. But not the ballroom—*the private quarters.*

A familiar face appeared.

Sophia’s aunt.

“Luciana?” Sophia gasped.

On screen, Luciana met with Salvatore in a shadowed alcove, exchanging a small folder.

“She gave him something,” Matteo said. “Blueprints. Security details from your side.”

Sophia’s blood turned to ice.

“She was at the estate this morning,” she whispered. “Said she came to check on me.”

Rafael growled. “She betrayed you.”

“No,” Sophia said. “She *sold* me.”

The betrayal sliced deeper than any bullet. Luciana had been her only family left. The one who’d cried at her grave.

And now she was the dagger in her back.

“What do we do?” Matteo asked.

Sophia straightened, her voice cold and clear.

“We bleed them. All of them.”

Rafael reached for her hand. “You’re not alone anymore.”

She nodded. “Then let’s start acting like it.”

**

Later that night, in the privacy of their bedroom, the rage finally cracked.

Sophia collapsed onto the bed, fists clenched, eyes hot with unshed tears.

“She was all I had,” she whispered. “And she sold me like I was nothing.”

Rafael knelt before her, pulling her face into his hands.

“You’re not nothing,” he said fiercely. “You are everything. You are fire and fury and fucking fate wrapped in silk.”

She looked up at him, eyes wild. “Then *use* me. Ruin me. Make me forget.”

Rafael didn’t hesitate.

He pulled her into his lap, his hands ripping the dress from her body, mouth crashing onto hers with desperation.

“Say it,” he growled, biting her lip.

“I’m yours,” she gasped.

He slammed her back onto the bed, teeth and tongue devouring every inch of her, his hands rough, demanding.

Her moans echoed off the walls as he took her—again and again—until her anger became pleasure, her betrayal became power.

They moved like warriors, like lovers, like two storms finally colliding.

And when she came, it was with a cry that shattered the silence:

“I am not theirs. I am *yours.*”

Rafael kissed her throat, where the choker had once sat.

“And you’ll *never* be anyone else’s.”

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