The Blood Mafia's Unwanted Bride

Chloe

A once-in-a-century Blood Moon hung low over Venice, bleeding a thick, violent crimson across the black water of the lagoon.

For the vampires prowling the marble colonnades tonight, the red sky was pure narcotics. Everywhere I looked, lower-bloods were losing their minds—pupils blown wide, fangs aching, their predatory instincts riding the lunar high like drunks on cheap gin.

I felt nothing.

Partly because I was born a Null—a freak of the Corvo bloodline with zero magical resonance, completely deaf to the moon's siren call.

Mostly, though, it was because of the man walking half a step ahead of me in a bespoke charcoal overcoat.

Never let the sky dictate your pulse, Chloe, my father had drilled into me since I was old enough to hold a blade. A beast reacts to the moon. A Don makes the moon wait.

As we approached the gilded doors of our flagship casino, my father's ancient aura was still flaring from the street—a suffocating, dark-velvet pressure stimulated by the Blood Moon that forced every restless vampire on the pavement to bow their heads and clear the way.

Then, his boot crossed the casino threshold.

In a single heartbeat, Lorenzo Corvo slammed his aura shut, locking all that terrifying power behind his ribs like a vault door.

I frowned, noticing the faint tightness around his jaw. Suppressing a pureblood aura during a Blood Moon was like swallowing crushed glass.

"Why choke it back?" I murmured as the doorman took our coats.

My father offered me a mild, unhurried smile, adjusting his silver cufflinks.

"In our world, bambina, the Family comes first, and business comes second," he said softly. "We are here to collect protection money, not to suffocate the house's high rollers and ruin their night."

I gave a slight nod, though my eyes scanned the crowded chandelier-lit floor before I leaned in closer.

"But Dad... word on the water is that the Castellano syndicate has been trying to muscle in on this casino all month."

My hand brushed the inside of my blazer, where a custom nickel-plated Beretta 92FS sat cold against my ribs.

"Are you sure just the two of us walking in here is enough?" I whispered. "I only brought one gun. And one white-ash hollow-point in the chamber."

My father let out a low, amused chuckle.

"Child, the Mafia does not survive on headcounts, and it doesn't survive on guns," he said, his voice carrying the quiet weight of three centuries. "It survives on credibility. In all the decades we've watched over this house, we have never missed a beat. That unbroken peace is why their tables print gold every night."

"Still, the Americans—"

"And besides," my father interrupted gently, turning at the private elevator to look down at me with warm, knowing eyes. "After all these years, have you ever known your old man to walk into a room without already writing the ending? What is there for you to worry about?"

He tapped my chin lightly, smiling at my lingering frown.

"Come on. Let's go."

Two minutes later, the heavy mahogany doors of the top-floor penthouse office swung open for us.

"Don Lorenzo!"

Signor Giancarlo, the casino's proprietor, practically lunged out of his leather chair, his arms spread wide and an oily, theatrical smile plastered across his face.

"Madonna mia, why trouble yourself to walk up my stairs in person?" Giancarlo gushed, gesturing toward the velvet sofa. "For a routine pickup like this, sending one of your button men would have been plenty!"

My father didn't sit. He remained standing in the center of the rug, resting both hands on the silver raven-head pommel of his cane.

"Some lessons cannot be delegated, Giancarlo," my father drawled smoothly. "They must be taught by hand and word. I want my daughter completely familiar with the pulse of our syndicate's business."

"Ha! Well said, Don Lorenzo! Very well said!" Giancarlo beamed, rubbing his hands together.

I stepped forward half a pace, keeping my posture textbook-perfect.

"Then we won't steal any more of your clock, Signor Giancarlo," I said, my voice crisp and cool. "We are here for this month's protection fee. Plus the two months your ledger is already behind. Three months in total—shall we settle it?"

The jovial warmth on Giancarlo's face curdled around the edges.

He scratched the back of his thick neck, letting out a long, theatrical sigh.

"Well, now, Lorenzo... business has been brutal lately," Giancarlo muttered, avoiding my eyes. "And as you know, when a man tends a pasture this fat... yours aren't the only eyes looking over the fence."

My father didn't circle the bush.

"We are old friends, Giancarlo," my father said evenly. "Skip the veil. Tell me straight what is on your mind."

Giancarlo paused. Then, shamelessly, he straightened his silk tie and smiled.

"Fine. Since we're family, I won't be shy," Giancarlo said, leaning a hip against his desk. "My territory is a prize piece of meat. As a matter of fact, the young heir of the Castellano family—Dante Castellano—sat down for a chat with me this afternoon. Sharp young man. Very practical. And the rates he put on the table were... remarkably generous."

Beside my father, not a single muscle on my face twitched.

Even when your blood is boiling, my father had taught me, never interrupt a man while he is busy pricing his own coffin. Let him finish.

Sure enough, Giancarlo mistook my silence for an opening.

"Of course, I didn't jump into bed with them right away!" Giancarlo added magnanimously. "I value my history with you, Godfather! So here is what we'll do—times are hard, so give me forty percent off. You take sixty percent on the dollar, and in return, I'll keep doing business with House Corvo!"

A cold, incredulous laugh escaped my lips.

"Have you lost your mind, Giancarlo?" I snapped, stepping up to the desk. "Do you have any idea how much blood and manpower we burn keeping rival packs and dock rats out of your hair? Sixty percent wouldn't even cover the silver rounds and hush money for our night patrols!"

I pointed a finger toward the floor beneath our boots.

"And 'bad business'? Your main floor downstairs is packed shoulder to shoulder, and you're telling me the tables are dry?!"

Giancarlo's fake smile finally snapped.

His eyes narrowed into ugly, calculating slits as he dropped the act entirely.

"Are you too young to understand plain Italian, little girl?" Giancarlo sneered. "The Castellano family came straight from America! They are drowning in greenbacks and heavy muscle—not to mention their syndicate is packed with young, hot-blooded werewolves itching for a fight!"

He scoffed, looking between my father and me with open contempt.

"And what about your House Corvo? Sure, you're one of the Three Founding Houses—but Lorenzo doesn't even have a single son! A woman sitting in the Godfather's chair? Unheard of! Frankly, I don't see what you're going to use to keep my roof covered once the old man is gone!"

The air in the penthouse turned to solid ice.

My right hand slid smoothly into my coat pocket, my fingers wrapping around the cold grip of my custom Beretta 92FS.

Instantly, Giancarlo's four bodyguards took a heavy step forward from the corners, their hands dropping to the guns under their jackets.

Right on the edge of a bloodbath—

Clap.

A warm hand patted my shoulder.

"Easy, Chloe. Leave the iron in your pocket," my father drawled, giving my shoulder a silencing squeeze. "I'm sure Signor Giancarlo simply hasn't finished his math yet. Thirty-nine years without a single broken window... a smart man knows how to appreciate our shelter."

Giancarlo didn't back down an inch, mistaking my father's laugh for weakness.

"I am dead serious, Godfather," Giancarlo said coldly. "If you don't take the sixty percent tonight, tomorrow morning I turn my head and—"

He didn't get to finish the sentence.

Unhurriedly, my father reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small black velvet jewelry box, and set it on the mahogany desk.

Giancarlo frowned in confusion. At a flick of his chin, his nearest subordinate stepped forward and popped the lid open.

The bodyguard froze, his eyes bulging out of his skull. "W-What the hell is this...?!"

Giancarlo leaned over to look—and all the blood drained from his face.

"That ring..." Giancarlo stammered, his voice cracking. "That's Young Master Dante's signet ring! Why is it soaked in blood?! He was wearing it right in front of me this afternoon!"