Chapter 3 Blood Contract

Giulia took two steps back. It wasn’t planned or conscious — it was instinctive, as if her body had reacted before her mind could catch up. For the first time since she had entered that office, since she had looked into the eyes of the man who hated her with an almost tangible intensity, she felt fear.

It wasn’t fear of the gun.

Nor of the veiled threat hanging in the air like thick smoke.

It was fear of what this meant.

She had never imagined Vicenzo’s proposal would be this. Marriage. The word sounded absurd, almost laughable, if it hadn’t been soaked in poison. He hated her. He had always made that clear. Every look, every silence, every gesture was a living reminder that she was the target of his revenge.

So why marry her?

The answer came like a cruel whisper inside her own mind: because he wanted to torture her. Because he wanted to bind her more deeply than any cell ever could. Because the altar, in his hands, would be nothing more than the first step of a sentence with no absolution.

Vicenzo almost groaned in satisfaction when he saw the reaction he had been waiting for. That hesitation, that retreat — even if brief — was the first real crack in her armor. Something ignited inside him, a dark, almost sensual satisfaction, as if he had won a silent battle.

But the pleasure didn’t last.

Giulia lifted her gaze to him again. Her voice came out unsteady, but there was resolve in every syllable, as if she were stitching courage together with her own pain.

“Fine. I accept.”

Then she continued, firmer now.

“But you’re going to show me proof. Real proof. I want to know who really killed Luca.”

The name.

That damn name. Always it.

Vicenzo narrowed his eyes, the gesture slicing through the air between them like a blade. The rage returned — not as an explosion, but as poison flooding his veins. He walked toward her with slow, deliberate steps, as if the floor itself obeyed his rhythm. When he stopped, his body pressed against hers with a force that left no room for escape.

She felt his heat. The scent of whiskey, leather, and danger. Her heart hammered too fast, but she didn’t retreat.

Vicenzo lifted the gun — not to threaten her, but for something far more perverse. With the cold barrel, he wiped the blood trailing down her neck. Slowly. Like he was marking territory. Like he was saying, without words, that she already belonged to him — even without a ring, even without a contract.

Giulia held her breath. She expected revulsion. Expected her body to recoil in disgust, fear, hatred.

But what she felt was something else.

A strange, treacherous heat that crawled up her spine and lodged between her ribs.

And that made her hate herself even more.

Guilt struck like a punch. A silent slap. On impulse, she shoved Vicenzo hard, pushing him away as if trying to rip that feeling out of her own skin.

“I haven’t signed any contract yet,” she said sharply, forcing control back into her voice.

He took a step back but didn’t lose his balance. A dry laugh left his throat — empty, joyless, soulless. The sound echoed through the office like a verdict.

“I’ll have a room prepared for you here at the hotel. Don’t even think about running, or you’ll be shot the moment you try. I’ll draft the contract. Tomorrow, you sign it. And this weekend…”

He paused, savoring it.

“…we get married.”

Giulia stared at him, stunned, as if the words took an extra second to register.

“Already?”

He smiled, and there was something deeply perverse in it. A sick pleasure in dictating her fate.

“Little liar… this is Las Vegas. And if that weren’t enough, I’m the king of this place.”

Without waiting for a reply, he picked up the phone from the desk and made a quick call. His voice was low, firm, commanding. He didn’t ask. He ordered.

“Prepare a room for Miss Salvatore. And send someone to escort her. Now.”

When he hung up, Giulia was still standing there, motionless, trying to understand when exactly she had lost control of her own life.

“Can I get my things from the rental car? It’s in the parking garage.”

Vicenzo had already turned his back, standing in front of the computer as if she no longer existed. But he answered without looking at her.

“Hand the keys to whoever escorts you. They’ll take care of it. The car will be returned.”

Before Giulia could say anything else, there was a knock on the door. A man entered — tall, grim-faced, with the look of someone who didn’t ask questions. He gave a curt nod, signaling for her to follow him.

Giulia took a step, but before she left, Vicenzo’s voice cut through the room again, cold as steel.

“If she tries to run… shoot her in the leg. Or both. Then kill her slowly.”

The man nodded, as if receiving an ordinary instruction.

Giulia didn’t show fear. There was no room for it. She had no intention of running. That man couldn’t help her.

But Vicenzo…

Vicenzo was the only one who could uncover the truth.

And she would endure everything.

Even marrying him.

If that was what it took to reach Luca’s killer.

Giulia followed the man in silence. The hallway felt too long, too suffocating, as if the air itself carried the weight of every wrong decision she had ever made. Her steps were quick, almost hurried — not out of fear of what awaited her, but out of a quiet urgency to be alone, away from eyes, away from judgment, away from Vicenzo.

When they reached the penthouse door, she handed the car keys to the guard without hesitation.

“It’s in the parking garage. Bring my things and return the car, please.”

He nodded once, said nothing, and disappeared down the hallway.

Giulia didn’t wait. She opened the door with trembling hands and stepped inside without even noticing the luxurious décor surrounding her. Gold-framed mirrors, marble countertops, heavy linen curtains, furniture that screamed exclusivity.

None of it mattered.

She ran, opening doors, crossing rooms, until she found the bathroom. And there, in front of the black stone sink, her body finally gave in. She vomited violently, as if she could purge not only her stomach, but the bitter taste of humiliation, guilt, and Vicenzo’s touch.

The cold barrel of the gun still seemed pressed against her skin, even hours later.

And the worst part — the part that made her want to tear her own skin off — was remembering that, for a single second, her body hadn’t rejected it.

It had reacted.

It had felt something.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the hotel, Vicenzo stood in his office, facing the window, his gaze lost in the lights of Las Vegas. But his mind wasn’t there. It was stuck on the moment he pressed the gun barrel to Giulia’s neck. The thin line of blood. The involuntary shiver that ran through her body.

And to his own fury, he felt himself harden inside his pants.

“Fuck,” he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut as if he could erase the image from his mind.

That wasn’t desire. It couldn’t be. He hadn’t slept with anyone in weeks. That was all it was. Physical deprivation. Instinct. Nothing to do with that bitch who killed Luca. Nothing to do with the woman he was supposed to destroy — not want.

He took a deep breath, forcing control back. Then he grabbed his phone and quickly typed a message to Enzo Mariani, his personal lawyer. Prenuptial agreements weren’t exactly Enzo’s specialty, but he knew people. People who knew how to draft the kind of contract Vicenzo wanted.

“I need a prenup. Urgently. I want clauses that make it clear she’s my property. That she must obey me in everything. And that I owe her nothing — except punishing Luca’s killer. The rest, you can infer.”

He sent the message and smiled. A cold, cruel, satisfied smile. Giulia Salvatore’s hell was only beginning.

And he would make sure it was truly hellish.

The next morning, Giulia lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as if it might offer her answers. She had spent most of the night vomiting, curled up on the bathroom floor, disgusted with herself, disgusted with Vicenzo, disgusted with her own body — a body that, for one second, had betrayed her mind.

When someone knocked on the door, she didn’t move right away. She assumed it was the guard bringing her luggage. She didn’t bother getting ready. Her hair was tied back carelessly, her face pale, wearing only an oversized T-shirt and sweatpants.

But when she opened the door, it wasn’t the guard.

It was Vicenzo.

He looked her up and down with undisguised contempt, blue eyes dragging over every detail of her appearance as if she were something filthy.

“Never show up in front of me like this again,” he said, voice low and sharp. “You look like an alley whore after a night’s work.”

Anger flared inside her like fire. She wanted to flip him off. Spit in his face. But she held back. She simply lifted her chin and answered coldly.

“I’m not dressing up for you. Like I said yesterday, we haven’t signed anything yet. I’m not yours.”

He stepped into the room without permission, as if he already owned everything inside it — including her. He approached slowly, then tossed a black envelope onto the bed.

“Then sign.”

She stared at the envelope as if it carried poison. With trembling hands, she picked up the contract and opened it. The first lines were formal, cold, legal. Then came the clauses.

Each one a stab.

“The wife, Giulia Salvatore, is the exclusive property of Vicenzo Moretti.”

“She must obey all orders without question.”

“She has no right to reciprocity, affection, or fidelity.”

“The sole obligation of Vicenzo Moretti is to severely punish the person responsible for Luca’s death.”

Her stomach twisted again.  But she didn’t throw up.  Not this time. She closed her eyes for a moment. Took a deep breath.

And thought:

This is it. The price of the truth.