The Blood Tribute

The rain in Chicago had a way of washing away everything except the smell of gunpowder and old blood.

Francesca Moretti stood in the grand library of the Moretti estate in Gold Coast, her fingers digging so violently into the dark velvet upholstery of an antique armchair that her knuckles turned white. Outside, the storm whipped against the tall arched windows, lightning fracturing the night sky in jagged bursts of electric violet.

Across the room, behind a massive carved mahogany desk, sat her uncle Alberto.

Alberto looked like a man who was already dead and merely waiting for someone to measure his coffin. His silk tie was undone, his expensive tailored suit wrinkled, and a half-empty decanter of vintage bourbon sat between his shaking hands. Two armed bodyguards stood by the double doors, their faces ashen, assault rifles slung low across their tactical vests.

"You're being unreasonable, Francesca," Alberto said, his voice raspy, reeking of alcohol and desperation. He took a heavy swallow of amber liquor. "This is business. In our world, blood settles debts. You should be honored that your name carries enough weight to stop a war."

"Honored?!" Francesca’s voice was a whip-crack in the silent library. She took two sharp strides toward the desk, her hazel eyes blazing with emerald fury. "You sold my father's shipping routes. You gambled away his casino holdings in Atlantic City. And now that Nikolai Rossi has backed you into a corner, you want to hand me over like a prize heifer to save your miserable skin!"

"Nikolai Rossi has slaughtered twenty-four of our capos in three weeks!" Alberto slammed his tumbler onto the desk, amber bourbon sloshing over the mahogany. "His men have surrounded this neighborhood! If I do not sign this treaty by midnight, the Rossi syndicate will breach these gates and execute every living soul with the surname Moretti! Do you want to watch your cousins die, Francesca?! Do you want to watch this family burned to ash?!"

"I would rather die fighting on my feet than spend a single night in that monster's bed!" Francesca snarled, her chest heaving with fury beneath her black silk blouse.

"You don't have a choice," a new voice murmured from the shadows of the doorway.

The voice was low, smooth, and colder than a freshly sharpened blade drawn across the throat.

Francesca froze. The hair on her arms stood straight up.

The two Moretti bodyguards stationed at the door didn't even raise their rifles. In fact, they backed away against the wood paneling, their hands trembling, their eyes filled with pure, unadulterated terror.

A man stepped through the open doorway.

He was tall—at least six-foot-three—with wide, lethal shoulders that filled out an immaculate black three-piece suit like armor. Raindrops glistened on the shoulders of his cashmere overcoat, and a platinum signet ring bearing the crowned viper of the Rossi dynasty gleamed on his pinky finger.

His dark hair was cut sharp, slicked back from a forehead etched with aristocratic nobility. His jaw was sculpted from brutal granite, shadowed with dark evening stubble, and a thin, pale scar ran along the edge of his left cheekbone, disappearing into his collar.

But it was his eyes that stole every drop of oxygen from Francesca's lungs.

They were emerald green. Not the soft green of spring moss, but the cold, luminous, terrifying green of deep ocean water under ice. They locked onto Francesca with an intensity so feral, so possessively absolute, that the room seemed to shrink until only the two of them existed.

Nikolai Rossi. The Ghost of Chicago. The man who had carved a path of slaughter across the Midwest to claim the underworld throne.

Beside him walked his brother Marco, holding a leather folder under his arm, looking around the library with bored amusement.

Alberto scrambled out of his leather chair so fast his knees knocked against the desk. "Don Rossi! We... we were not expecting you until midnight."

Nikolai didn't spare Alberto a single glance. He didn't acknowledge the bodyguards, the bourbon, or the guns. His boots made no sound against the Persian rug as he strode across the library, his gaze never wavering from Francesca.

Every instinct in Francesca’s body screamed at her to run. Her pulse hammered against her ribs like a war drum. Yet her Moretti pride—the stubborn, unbroken blood of her father—refused to let her cower. She stood her ground, planting her feet, lifting her chin to meet the demon king’s stare.

Nikolai stopped barely eighteen inches from her.

Up close, the sheer physical presence of the man was overwhelming. He smelled of rain, expensive Italian leather, Cuban tobacco, and the crisp, metallic tang of iron. He towered over her, casting a shadow that swallowed her whole.

"So," Nikolai rumbled, his deep baritone vibrating through the floorboards. A slow, dangerous smirk curved the corner of his lips. "This is the spitfire who would rather die than share my bed."

Francesca refused to flinch. "I am not a contract, Don Rossi. I am not an offering to appease your butcher's appetite."

Nikolai took a half-step closer. His massive chest nearly brushed her breasts, the heat radiating from him intense enough to singe her skin. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his right hand. His knuckles were bruised, covered in faint silver scars—hands that had strangled enemies and signed executions.

He reached out, his calloused thumb coming up to catch the edge of her chin.

Francesca tried to pull away, but his grip was like vice-forged steel—unyielding, firm, yet unexpectedly careful. His thumb stroked the curve of her lower lip, his green eyes darkening to midnight.

"You are whatever I say you are, Francesca," Nikolai murmured, his voice dropping into a husky, hypnotic rasp that sent an electric jolt straight down her spine. "Your uncle thought he was offering me a bride to save his life. What the fool doesn't know is that I would have burned this entire city to the ground just to take you anyway."

Francesca’s breath caught in her throat. "What?"

"I saw you six months ago at the opera in Milan," Nikolai said softly, his thumb pressing lightly against her trembling lip. "You were wearing a red dress, looking at the stage like you wanted to set the world on fire. I decided that night that you would belong to me."

He released her chin, turning his chilling emerald gaze onto Alberto, who was trembling behind the desk like a trapped rat.

"The treaty is accepted," Nikolai announced coldly. "The Moretti territory falls under Rossi protection as of this second. Alberto, you have until sunrise to pack your personal belongings and surrender your keys to Marco. You are retired."

"Retired?!" Alberto squeaked, sweat pouring down his face. "Don Rossi, our agreement was—"

"Our agreement was that I spare your life in exchange for your brother’s daughter," Nikolai cut him off, his voice flat, emotionless, and final. "You should thank God on your knees that Francesca was in this house tonight, Alberto. Otherwise, my men would have nailed you to that desk."

Nikolai turned back to Francesca. He reached out and caught her hand in his. His palm was warm, rough, and completely enveloping hers.

"The wedding is at noon tomorrow at St. Jude's Cathedral," Nikolai said, his eyes burning into hers. "Wear whatever you want, little viper. Tomorrow, you become my queen. And once I put my ring on your finger, only death will set you free."