Chapter 65 THE BLOOD OATH
The underground hall had not been used in years.
That alone told Isabella how serious this was.
She stood at the edge of the chamber, half-hidden behind a marble pillar carved with the De Luca crest—an ancient lion biting a crown. The air smelled of stone, wax, and iron. Torches lined the circular walls, their flames steady, disciplined, casting long shadows that bent and twisted like listening spirits.
This was not a meeting.
It was a reckoning.
Men filled the room in quiet formation: capi, lieutenants, soldiers whose names were whispered in Milan with fear and reverence. They wore dark suits, no insignias, no phones. Every weapon was visible. No secrets here. No pretenses.
At the center stood Lorenzo.
He did not sit. He never sat during moments like this.
He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, posture straight, head lifted—not as a man asking loyalty, but as one who owned it. His expression was carved from stone. No warmth. No hesitation. No mercy.
Isabella had never seen him like this.
Not at the docks.
Not during executions.
Not even during war.
This was colder.
Marco Ferri stepped forward first, holding a ceremonial blade—long, narrow, ancient. Its handle was wrapped in dark leather worn smooth by generations of hands. The De Luca oath knife.
Isabella’s pulse hammered in her ears.
Blood oath.
Her mind screamed a single thought over and over:
This is about me.
Marco’s voice cut through the silence. “We have an infection within our bloodline.”
A murmur rippled through the room, quickly crushed by Lorenzo lifting one finger.
“Silence,” Lorenzo said quietly.
The room obeyed instantly.
He turned, his gaze sweeping over every man present—slow, deliberate, merciless. When his eyes passed over Isabella’s hiding place, her lungs locked. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t look away.
For half a second, she thought he was looking at her.
Then his gaze moved on.
“There is a traitor among us,” Lorenzo continued. “Someone who has fed our enemies information. Someone who has endangered my family. My brother. My people.”
Matteo stood near the wall, arms crossed, jaw tight. His eyes flicked briefly toward Isabella’s position—quick, warning, unreadable.
Her stomach dropped.
Lorenzo accepted the blade from Marco.
He didn’t raise it theatrically. He didn’t speak dramatically. He simply pressed the blade to his palm and drew it across his skin.
Blood welled instantly.
Isabella fought the urge to recoil.
“This is a blood oath,” Lorenzo said. “An old one. Older than Milan as it stands now.”
He turned slowly, meeting each man’s eyes in turn.
“We will find the traitor.”
A pause.
“And we will not interrogate.”
The room went still.
“We will not negotiate.”
Another pause, heavier this time.
“We will not forgive.”
His voice dropped, sharpening like a blade drawn against bone.
“When we find them, they will die immediately. Publicly. Painfully.”
A man stepped forward and mirrored the cut, blood dripping onto the stone floor. Then another. And another.
One by one, the De Lucas bled for loyalty.
Isabella’s hands trembled.
She imagined herself dragged into the center of the room. Imagined Lorenzo’s eyes on her—not with confusion or longing, but with clarity.
With judgment.
With execution.
She had never felt fear like this. Not when she planted the device. Not when she was shot at. Not even when Gianni was captured.
This fear was different.
Because this time, it was him.
Lorenzo turned toward Matteo. “Brother.”
Matteo hesitated just a fraction too long.
Isabella saw it. Lorenzo saw it.
But Matteo stepped forward and cut his palm without protest. Blood fell. The oath accepted.
Then Lorenzo raised his bleeding hand.
“Anyone who withholds information,” he said calmly, “anyone who protects the traitor—will share their fate.”
His eyes swept the room again.
This time, they stopped.
Isabella’s breath caught as his gaze locked onto her hiding place.
The torchlight illuminated her face fully now.
There was no mistaking it.
He knew she was there.
For one suspended moment, the entire world narrowed to the space between them.
She searched his expression for mercy.
She found none.
Only intent.
Lorenzo didn’t call her forward.
He didn’t accuse her.
He simply said, “Loyalty reveals itself under pressure.”
Then he turned away.
The oath concluded.
The men dispersed quietly, efficiently, like predators returning to the hunt.
Isabella stayed frozen long after the room emptied.
Her chest burned. Her throat tightened. Her legs refused to move.
Matteo was the one who approached her first.
“You shouldn’t have been here,” he murmured.
Her voice came out hoarse. “He wanted me to be.”
Matteo’s jaw clenched. “Then you’re in more danger than you realize.”
She finally looked at him. “Does he suspect me?”
Matteo didn’t answer immediately.
That was answer enough.
“He suspects everyone,” Matteo said carefully. “But you’re… closer than most.”
Her heart pounded violently.
“What do I do?” she whispered.
Matteo leaned in, voice low. “You survive.”
Then he stepped back and left her alone in the shadows.
Later that night, Isabella stood at the window of her room, staring down at the courtyard far below. Guards moved in quiet patterns. Every step measured. Every face alert.
The house had changed.
It was no longer a sanctuary.
It was a hunting ground.
A soft knock sounded behind her.
She turned slowly.
Lorenzo stood in the doorway.
No jacket. No weapon visible. His palm was wrapped in fresh bandage, blood seeping faintly through the gauze.
Her heart nearly stopped.
“You watched,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” she admitted.
He entered, closing the door behind him with a soft click that echoed like a gunshot.
“Good,” he said. “Then you understand what comes next.”
Her voice trembled despite her effort. “You’re going to tear your own house apart.”
“If that’s what it takes.”
“And if the traitor is someone you care about?” she asked quietly.
He stopped in front of her.
Up close, his eyes were dark, unreadable, terrifyingly calm.
“Then that will be their mistake,” he said.
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.
Isabella realized something then—something cold and final.
She was no longer choosing between revenge and love.
She was choosing between confession and death.
And Lorenzo De Luca had already chosen the knife.
She pressed her fingers into the window ledge, grounding herself as panic threatened to surface.
Because somewhere, deep inside her, she knew—
The blood oath had been sworn.
And her name was already written in blood.