Heir To Silence. Book 1 The Pact of Blood Series

1.

I learned the truth about my family in a hospital corridor that smelled like antiseptic and burnt coffee.

My brother Marco was still alive. That was the only thing holding me upright.

I sat on a plastic chair with my knees pressed together, my hands folded in my lap so tightly my fingers ached. Blood stained the cuff of Marco’s sleeve where I’d grabbed him before they pushed me back. The doctors had taken him hours ago, and no one had come out since.

Marco had always been the one who handled things. Bills. Rent. My mother’s silence. He’d raised me in New York like the world was something he could negotiate on my behalf if he just worked hard enough.

Now he lay behind closed doors with a bullet in his body, and I was surrounded by men I didn’t recognize.

They stood too still. Too alert. Watching the corridor instead of the doors like they already knew how the night would end.

One of them said my name.

“Lucia.”

I looked up.

He was older than Marco, his accent unmistakably Italian, his voice calm in a place where calm didn’t belong. His eyes moved over me once, measured and professional, then returned to my face.

I caught my reflection in the glass across from us. Long dark hair pulled back carelessly. Green eyes sharp against dark skin. A body that didn’t disappear no matter how simply I dressed. Wide hips, a narrow waist, presence that refused to soften itself.

I’d learned early how to take up space without apologizing for it.

“I don’t know you,” I said.

“No,” he replied. “You don’t.”

Another man stepped forward. Taller. Sharper. His presence pressed into the corridor like pressure building.

“We need to speak with you,” he said.

“I’m not leaving,” I answered. “My brother’s been shot.”

“We know,” he said. “That’s why you can’t stay.”

The words didn’t land all at once.

I stood anyway. “Who are you?”

“People who’ve been responsible for your safety longer than you realize,” the older man said.

“My family is my brother,” I said flatly.

The taller man hesitated. “Your family is larger than that.”

I laughed once, sharp and hollow. “You’ve made a mistake.”

They didn’t argue. They waited.

When the surgeon finally came out, exhaustion etched into his face, I barely heard him. Marco was stable. Awake. Asking for me.

They gave me two minutes.

He looked smaller in the hospital bed. Bandaged. Bruised. Still stubborn.

“You look terrifying,” he murmured.

“You got shot,” I replied. “I think that wins.”

His fingers tightened around mine. “You have to go with them.”

“No.”

“Lucia,” he said, and his voice cracked. “Please.”

That was when I knew this wasn’t a choice.

I didn’t go back to my apartment. They took me somewhere anonymous, clean and quiet. A suitcase waited on the bed, half filled with clothes I didn’t remember buying. Dresses that felt expensive. Shoes meant for floors that echoed.

The jet was already waiting.

I didn’t sleep.

I watched New York disappear beneath us and thought about my mother. About how she vanished without explanation. About how Marco always said she couldn’t stay, and how I’d learned not to push because it hurt him more than it hurt me.

Italy felt heavier the moment we landed.

The air was warmer, thicker, like it carried memory in it. The sky seemed lower, closer.

The drive went on through rolling hills layered with vineyards and cypress trees. Stone walls older than anything I’d ever known slid past in silence. Iron gates opened only after men spoke into radios I couldn’t hear.

Then the house appeared.

It didn’t arrive all at once. It unfolded slowly, revealing wing after wing, courtyard after courtyard. The closer we got, the larger it seemed, stretching outward as if it were testing whether I understood what kind of place this was.

My breath caught.

“This is where I’m staying?” I asked quietly.

“For now,” the man beside me said.

Inside, everything echoed. Marble floors cooled my feet. Ceilings rose higher than comfort. Paintings lined the walls without labels. Wealth that didn’t need to announce itself because it never had to.

Voices filled the hall.

“Lucia.”

A man crossed the room and pulled me into an embrace before I could think. His grip was tight, emotional.

“You’re real,” he said softly.

Another man stepped closer, quieter, his gaze sharp and protective. He studied me like he was already memorizing my face.

Then someone wrapped an arm around my shoulders.

“I’m your twin,” he said simply. “I’ve missed you.”

I swallowed. “I didn’t know I had one.”

He smiled, careful and warm. “You do now.”

A presence filled the space before anyone spoke.

“My Lucia.”

I turned.

He stood a few steps away, tall and composed, warmth in his expression that felt intentional.

“Father?” I asked.

He nodded. “Yes.”

He kissed my forehead and held my hands like he didn’t want to let go.

“You’re safe here,” he said. “That’s all that matters.”

Dinner was overwhelming. Long tables. Too much food. Voices layered with laughter and something heavier underneath. My brothers watched me constantly, like they were afraid I’d disappear if they looked away.

When conversation drifted too close to anything serious, it stopped.

“That isn’t for you,” father said gently. “You’ve only just arrived. We’ll make sure you’re protected.”

The words were kind. The boundary was clear.

Later, the doorbell rang again and again.

Men arrived in dark suits, movements precise, voices low. Jackets were adjusted. Expressions sharpened. The air changed.

I lingered in the hallway, pretending to admire a painting as I watched them pass.

Then I saw him.

He entered last.

The room seemed to shift around him without anyone acknowledging it. Conversations dulled. Chairs stopped moving. He adjusted his cufflinks calmly, gold catching the light against tanned skin marked with ink that disappeared beneath his sleeve.

His fingers were calloused, precise. Nails clean. Hands that knew both control and violence.

He finished fastening his cuffs before lifting his head.

His eyes found mine.

Dark. Brooding. Unhurried.

They moved over me slowly, deliberately, as if he had all the time in the world.

Something warm and dangerous stirred low in my stomach.

I went upstairs without thinking and changed.

I chose silk. Bare shoulders. A dress that clung to my hips and made it clear I wasn’t trying to disappear. Something my brothers would disapprove of.

I let my hair fall loose down my back.

When I caught my reflection, I smiled. Slow. Knowing.

Then I walked into the meeting room.

Conversation stopped.

Smoke hung thick in the air. The long table felt suddenly too small for the men gathered around it. Heads turned. Irritation flickered.

And then his voice filled the room.

Low. Rough. Italian.

It carried easily across a space I wasn’t meant to enter.

“Who is this?”

His attention stayed on me as he spoke. Dark eyes fixed, unblinking. His hand rested flat against the table, veins visible beneath tanned skin.

I lifted my chin and met his stare.

I smiled, deliberate and unapologetic.

“Lucia,” my brother hissed behind me.

A hand closed around my arm and pulled me back.

As the door shut, I kept my eyes on him.

He didn’t look away.

Not when I was dragged from the room. Not when the space between us closed.

My pulse thudded low and heavy in my body.

I didn’t know his name yet.

Only that Italy had closed around me completely.

And whatever he was, he’d already decided I was trouble.