Mafia Bloodlines: A rivalry of Hearts

Return to the Lion's Den

Adriana's POV

The moment the jet wheels screeched against Italian soil, I felt it - that heavy, invisible chain snapping around my throat.

Home.

Not the warm kind. The kind that smelled like gunpowder and blood beneath the lemon trees.

I leaned back against the leather seat, the diamond studs in my ears catching the dying sun. Naples sprawled out beyond the window, all glitter and grime, golden domes and black alleyways. Beautiful. Rotten. Just like the people waiting for me beyond the tarmac.

The door cracked open. A gust of hot air hit me, thick with salt and smoke. I stood, smoothing the creases from my black silk blouse, every movement deliberate. Weakness was blood in the water here.

"Miss Romano," the pilot called after me. "Good luck."

I didn't look back. Luck was for the dead.

At the bottom of the stairs, two black SUVs idled, their engines growling low like beasts held by a thread. Men in suits stood by the doors - my father's soldiers. I recognized none of their faces, and that was no accident.

New dogs for an old master.

One of them stepped forward, holding the door open. His hand lingered too long at his side, where a gun bulged against his jacket. I smiled, slow and sharp.

Good. Let them be afraid.

I slid into the back seat. The leather was hot against my thighs, and the air inside smelled faintly of cigars and steel polish. Across from me sat Luca, my father's consigliere - a living fossil with silver hair slicked back and the kind of smile that made small children cry.

"Principessa," he drawled, lifting a glass of whiskey in salute. "How was New York?"

"Colder," I said, crossing my legs, "but the knives went in cleaner."

He chuckled like I'd made a joke. I hadn't.

The SUV rumbled to life, pulling away from the private runway. I watched the world blur past - the crumbling villas, the hawk-eyed street vendors, the white marble of churches that blessed no one.

This was my kingdom.

And I was the sacrificial lamb.

"You've grown into a beautiful woman," Luca said, voice oily. "Your father will be proud."

"My father sold me to the devil," I murmured, tapping my fingers against the door.

Luca tsked, shaking his head. "Peace has a price, Adriana. You should be honored to pay it."

I tilted my head, studying him. "Tell me, Luca, what did you pay? Or did you just hold the purse strings while others bled?"

His smile faltered. Good. Let the mask slip.

The drive twisted up into the hills, past wrought-iron gates and palatial estates. Our world, hidden behind walls thicker than loyalty. At the highest peak, like a vulture's nest, loomed the Romano Villa - sprawling stone and glass, built on the bones of enemies long forgotten.

The SUV slowed, tires crunching over the white gravel drive. Guards flanked the entrance, hands resting on their holsters.

Family, we called them.

Liars. Thieves. Killers.

The door swung open, and I stepped into the humid night.

The front doors opened before I reached them. Out strode my father - Matteo Romano, the Lion of Naples.

His hair was silver now, but his posture hadn't changed.

Straight back. Cold eyes. A man who had never been told no.

"Adriana," he said, arms wide like a king greeting a favorite subject. "Finally, you return to us."

Us. Like there was still an us.

"Father," I said, inclining my head. I didn't kiss his ring. Let him stew on that insult.

He didn't flinch. Instead, he smiled, all teeth. "Come inside. We have much to discuss."

I followed him through the marble-floored halls, the air heavy with the scent of lemon polish and old money. Portraits of dead men watched from the walls, their painted eyes dull with secrets.

In the dining room, the long mahogany table gleamed under chandeliers. Men in dark suits sat like vultures waiting for scraps.

The captains.

The council.

My prison guards.

I took the seat my father indicated - at his right hand. A statement. A threat.

"My daughter," he began, raising his glass. "The bridge between old enemies. The key to our future."

I didn't touch the wine placed before me.

He continued, voice smooth as a noose. "The war with the Petrovs has bled us for too long. Too many sons lost. Too many debts unpaid. Tonight, we end it."

I knew the shape of the trap before he even spoke the words. My heart pounded anyway.

"You will marry Ivan Petrov."

The room buzzed - murmured approvals, exchanged glances, knives being sharpened behind smiles.

I let the silence stretch, tasting the bitter edge of it on my tongue.

"When?" I asked, because asking why would only make me look weak.

"Three days," he said. "Enough time to prepare. Not enough time for doubts."

Not enough time to run.

I leaned back, crossing my arms. "And if I refuse?"

A flicker of amusement crossed his face. "Then Missi pays the price."

The name punched the air from my lungs. My little sister.

Still innocent. Still unbroken.

Still foolish enough to believe monsters looked like monsters.

"You wouldn't dare," I whispered.

He smiled. "Try me."

The chairs scraped back as the men stood, the meeting over. Deals struck. Fates sealed.

I sat frozen as they filed out, one by one, until only my father remained. He poured himself another glass of wine, swirling it lazily.

"You are your mother's daughter," he said at last, almost fond. "She fought, too. Until she learned better."

My nails dug into my palms. I forced my voice to stay calm. "Did she?"

He smiled over the rim of his glass. "Eventually."

I rose, slow and steady, each step deliberate.

"You can chain me," I said, voice like steel, "but you can't make me bow."

His laughter followed me out of the room, echoing off the marble walls.

In the safety of my old bedroom - untouched and dusty, a shrine to a girl who no longer existed - I locked the door and leaned against it.

My pulse was a drumbeat in my ears.

Three days.

Three days to marry a Petrov.

Three days to find a way to survive.

The moon hung low outside the window, fat and cruel.

I stared at my reflection in the cracked mirror - the sharp lines of my cheekbones, the fury in my eyes.

I was no one's sacrificial lamb.

I was the fire they would burn in.

And if Ivan Petrov thought he could break me -

He was about to learn that lions don't kneel to wolves.