Chapter 133 Blood of My Blood
\[Lilia\]
I woke up with a bludgeoning pain in my head. The heavy scent of lemon zest lingered inside my nostrils as I came to my senses, though my brain was still foggy and distorted as to what had just happened.
Slowly, I peeled my eyes open. A pristine white ceiling greeted my sight. The faded yellow light from a low-hanging chandelier danced around my vision until it came into focus. I was lying on a strange, wide bed with white silk sheets matching the entirety of the room around me. Pure white was accented with a few silver and wooden ornaments, like the immaculately polished red wooden chair beside the bed and a long white ottoman at the foot. Beside it was a monochrome table; right on top was a porcelain vase filled with pink lilies and a basket of fresh fruits. To my left was a floor-to-ceiling glass door draped with white curtains, fringed with silver at the bottom.
A beautiful white carpet lay underneath my bed, and the floor featured a pattern of dark red wooden planks. This place was bigger than my red room, and it was more elegant than my fiery one. It felt as if I had been checked into a luxury hotel all to myself.
Where the hell am I?
I waited for my head to stop spinning before pushing myself to sit upright. Looking down at my body, I was relieved to see that I was still wearing the same clothes. I tried to piece together the bits of information on how I ended up here.
Most of what I could remember was Sabina coming after me and slapping me in the face. Kael appeared, chastising me for defending myself after I slammed his fiancée’s head into the cupboard. She deserved it, though, and I will never apologize for my actions toward her. Ever. That woman is a witch, and she deserved more than a smacked head. I could have beaten the crap out of her if only I wasn't too scared of accidentally killing her in the process.
I recalled punching Kael in the face before I left. The swelling and the slight sting on my knuckles proved my memory right. Then, I went with Copper for a short stroll in the snow. I was seething with rage at them, and I didn't want to talk to anyone in the mansion—not even Aya. I even remembered Val confessing his feelings for me and that I flatly pushed him away, fearing it might ruin whatever friendship he and Kael had.
That was all.
However, deep down, I knew there was something I was forgetting—the most crucial part that could explain my current situation. Did Kael feel sorry for what he did and somehow gift me another room? Although I wasn't so fond of my flaming red room, I had gotten used to the color and didn't mind it at all. But if he had indeed transferred me, I wouldn't complain. This place was soothing.
How did I teleport to this place? Had I fallen from Copper and passed out? Where was Aya, by the way? Wasn't she supposed to be with me to transfer my clothes? Was she disgruntled by my behavior earlier and didn't want to see me? I felt guilty for ignoring her; I knew she might be traumatized by how I had acted.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, my vision swirling as my head felt like it was going to fall off my shoulders. I pressed the heel of my palm against my temple, hoping to alleviate the horrid sensation. I kept still for a moment, rubbing my temple in circles, just as the door suddenly clicked open.
I instinctively turned my head, hoping to see Aya or Kael. However, my brows immediately furrowed in perplexity as a strange man in his early sixties sauntered in. He wore a casual black suit with a red necktie, and right behind him were two other men. One of them was so familiar that it made my head hurt again.
“Moy angel, you're awake.”
I abruptly froze. My eyes went wide, and I felt a sickening lurch in the pit of my stomach. That voice. I knew that voice too well. It had haunted my dreams for so many nights, waking me up in a cold sweat.
“You...” Stammering, I swallowed the fear that rose in my throat as I eased myself up from the bed, balancing on my feet without taking my eyes off them.
For a man in his sixties, he didn't look like the typical grandfather. He had peppery white streaks in his hair, and his posture screamed power, cunning, and a reeking stench of malevolence reflected in his hazel eyes. Yet, behind that, a sense of striking familiarity lingered in my memory, even though I hadn't seen his face before.
My attention shifted to the man behind him. His face tickled the side of my brain before it finally clicked. He was one of my guards—the one Kael had deployed to watch over me in Italy. What was he doing with this strange man? Where was I? This definitely wasn't Kael’s mansion.
It slowly sunk in: the stroll with Copper, the power going out, the fences being dead. A man had crept up behind me before I passed out.
“Ah, yes. He is the one who brought you back to me,” the elderly man stated, recognizing my befuddled reaction. He turned toward the other strange man. “And this is my son, Ronan. Don’t worry. No harm will come to you, my dear. I promise you that.”
“What do you want from me?” I inquired, backing up slowly until the back of my feet hit the chair.
Despite my initial instinct that he was evil, his demeanor softened as he approached me. The man sighed and walked slowly, trying not to frighten me further, and halted right in front of me. He raised his hands and cupped my face. His thumb rubbed softly over the bruise at the corner of my mouth. Anger flashed in his eyes for a second before disappearing into a small smile.
“You’re safe now, amore mio,” he uttered softly, tucking my hair behind my ear. “He can never harm you again.”
I looked at him in mystification. I had to admit, his touch wasn't sexual or aggressive. It felt like he actually cared for me, but I didn't know why. Even my heart didn't feel hostility in his presence. If he had kidnapped me, why was he acting like I was precious?
“I don’t understand. Who are you?”
The man sighed, tapping the tip of my nose before withdrawing his hands. “You look so much like my angel—your mother. Mia cara, the blood of my blood.”
My brows knotted. “You knew my mother?”
His face briefly showed signs of grief, then transformed into a rage directed at no one. His gaze softened as he stared into my eyes. “I am her father, and you, cara, are my granddaughter.” He stroked my chin endearingly.
“What?”
I froze, staring at him as though a bucket of ice had been dumped over my head. I didn't know whether to believe him, but the more I stared into his hazel eyes, the more I realized why he looked so familiar. Those eyes were like mine, and so like my mother’s. I was very young when she died, but she used to tell me how our eyes were identical.
“That fottuto who sired you stole her away from me. I only learned of your existence after your mother’s death, when one of my men went to Russia and crossed paths with your father.” Hatred dripped from his voice as he mentioned my father. “I am more than glad he paid his debt to me with his life.”
“You ordered the kill on my father?” My knees buckled. The man claiming to be my grandfather was the reason behind my father’s death. The horrific images rushed back: a bullet to the head. Those cruel men.
“He squandered himself. He did not care for you. I tried to take you, but you were sold to an auction without my knowledge. Those assholes thought you were nothing. I would have paid for you, but that bastard Aslanov beat me to it.”
I was at a loss for words. I had conflicting emotions: relief that I had a relative in this world, but horror that he had killed my father. Yes, my father had failed me after Mom died. I worked myself to the bone to pay bills while he gambled and drank, eventually selling me to pay his debts. But he was still my father.
There was one other thing. “You’ve known Kael?”
“Very well, mia cara. He is not a good man. Look what he did to you. My little bird, almost broken. He is not going to harm you again.” He looked at the bruises on my face. He misunderstood; it wasn't Kael who did this.
“No, he didn’t do this—”
“Hush now. You're tired, and Donato wasn’t careful enough when he took you.”
“Where are we?” I sighed. My head was foggy and felt like it was going to break open.
“We are still in Russia, in one of my safe houses. Tomorrow, I will take you to Italy—to your home.”
The man—my grandfather—responded, patting my head gently.
“I don’t know your name.”
“Vittorio De Luca. and you, my dear, are no longer Lilia Fedoroa. You need not carry that bastard’s name any longer,” he said.
“From this moment on, you are a De Luca.”