Chapter 75

The Blood Oath.

The Roman dusk stretched long and red, casting a copper sheen across the courtyard of the Reyes Estate.

Wind whispered between marble pillars. Guards in black suits stood like statues, and the scent of burning sandalwood hung in the air.

Inside the council hall, the syndicate’s new world order was being carved not in chaos, but with the precision of a scalpel.

I sat at the center.

Not as the girl who had once trembled beneath her uncle’s thumb.

Not the pawn who was sold into a marriage contract.

But now the queen holds the leash of the empire.

Across from me sat Damian Cross. His gaze burned with the same quiet dominance I grew addicted to. He’s no longer the devil I married. He’s my king now. My partner in blood, in war, and in something far more dangerous. Love.

A glass of wine rested between us, untouched.

“The East is stable,” Damian said, reading through the latest intelligence reports. “But Colombia is stirring. One of Lucian’s old allies resurfaced in Medellin.”

My fingers curled around the stem of my glass. “We let them stir. We watch. Then we strike once they reveal their leader.”

“And if it’s someone inside?” Damian asked carefully.

My eyes didn’t flinch. “Then we cut the rot from the root.”

He leaned back, a slow smile curling across his face.

“You surprise me every day.”

I looked at him sideways. “You sound like you doubted me.”

“I doubted myself,” he admitted. “I never thought I’d live long enough to see a woman rule this empire without kneeling to any man.”

“I did kneel to one,” I said, standing and walking toward him.

He watched me, his eyes tracing every curve like he’d never seen me before. “When?”

I smirked. “That night in Paris. But I got off my knees on my own.”

Damian stood. Closed the space between us. “You could kneel again. For me.”

A hum passed my throat. “Only of you promise not to break me.”

He pulled me into him, fingers sliding into my hair.

“Break you? No. I might ruin you the way a man ruins a throne for any other king.”

I exhaled, sharp and breathless. “Then ruin me.”

Our lips collided like two empires crashing. There was no hesitation. No careful tenderness. It was lust, obsession, love, all forged in the crucible of blood and war. My hands tore at his shirt. His mouth burned a trail across my collarbone.

But just as the fire roared between us…

A knock.

“Boss,” Xander’s voice came in from the door, grave. “You need to see this.”

Twelve minutes later, on the syndicate intelligence floor, the lights buzzed low as the team assembled around the central table. Xander threw up a surveillance feed on the main screen.

“Two hours ago, someone raided one of our covert bunkers in Istanbul. Ten guards dead. Files stolen.”

My pulse quickened. “What files?”

“The Red List,” he said. “Your father’s blacklist. Every syndicate traitor he marked before his death.”

I froze.

Damian’s jaw clenched. “I thought that list was destroyed.”

“So did we,” Xander said. “Until Lucian confessed it was hidden in the Istanbul vault. He never cracked the encryption. But someone just did.”

Onscreen, a grainy image appeared.

A woman in all black, face covered, sleek and lethal. But as the camera caught her turning…

Damian froze.

My eyes narrowed. “Who is she?”

Damian stepped forward slowly. “That’s…. that's not possible.”

My stomach coiled. “Damian?”

His voice went quiet, cold. “Her name is Aria Russo. She was my second-in-command. And my fiancée..before she was declared dead three years ago.”

The room stilled.

My mouth went dry. “You told me she was killed in Sicily. By the Dimarco family.”

“She was,” he said. “I saw the body. Or I thought I did.”

I took a step back. “You thought…”

“She’s supposed to be dead,” he hissed. “But that woman on the feed…it’s her.”

Xander spoke up, cautious. “If she has the Red List, she knows everyone your father feared. She also know who truly ordered his execution.”

My mind reeled.

A dead woman returned. A lost list. A buried betrayal.

“Then she’s our new war,” I whispered.

Later that night, in Damian’s private office, Damian sat in the dark, staring at an old photograph.

Aria. Blonde, beautiful, fierce. She had once stood beside him with blood on her hands and loyalty in her heart. Or maybe so he thought.

“She was the first person I ever trusted,” he said when I entered the room. “And the first to teach me what betrayal really meant.”

I remained silent, standing behind him.

“I mourned her,” he said. “Buried her in my memories. And now she walks like a ghost in our kingdom.”

“Does she still matter to you?” I asked, my voice even.

He turned.

“She was my past. You…you are everything after.”

I nodded, slowly. “Then let’s bury her for good.”

Three days later, in Naples, the city was hot. Sticky. The kind of heat that reminds you of sins buried in its foundation.

I stood at the portside warehouse, flanked by four guards. Across the broken crates and sea-washed steel stood Aria Russo.

Alive. Armed. And smiling.

“Claire Reyes,” she said, removing her mask. “You’re prettier than I expected.”

“And you’re not dead,” I replied.

Aria laughed. “Not quite.”

“You faked your death to disappear with syndicate secrets. And now you return for what? Revenge? Power?”

Aria’s smile vanished. “To finish what I started. Damian was meant to lead alone. Until you came along with your pouty lips and broken-girl charm.”

I didn’t blink. “You’re jealous.”

“I built him. I built his empire alongside him…”

“No,” I said. “You followed. I rewrote the rules.”

Aria’s eyes narrowed. “Then let’s see how long you survive them.”

She pulled a gun.

I didn’t flinch. “Do it.”

Aria’s hand trembled. But a single shot rang out from behind.

Damian lowered his smoking pistol. “I buried you once, Aria. You don’t get a second funeral.”

He stepped to me, cupping my face.

“You’re my first choice. My last breath. My only queen.”

And in that moment, the ghosts were silenced.

One week later, in the coronation hall in Rome, the chamber was packed with syndicate loyalists, press, world leaders in dark suits, and underground royalty.

Candles burned tall. Crimson carpets stretched for miles.

I stood at the head, in black velvet, and a gold crown was being lowered on my head.

I was crowned not just as Damian’s bride.

But as the sovereign ruler of the most feared empire in Europe.

Damian kissed my knuckles. “You were made for this.”

And I believed him.