Heir To Silence. Book 1 The Pact of Blood Series

Alessia arrives early with intent.

She takes one look at me in my robe and shakes her head. “No. Tonight you’re not hiding.”

Music goes on. Champagne opens before noon. Dresses are laid across my bed like decisions waiting to be made.

I choose black. Soft. Bare in the right places. A dress that moves when I do and refuses to apologize for it.

Alessia fastens my necklace and steps back, assessing. “They’re going to stare.”

“Let them,” I say.

“That one especially,” she adds, meaning Matteo without saying his name.

The house fills fast.

First the Italians. Controlled, elegant, eyes sharp even when they smile. Men who don’t touch unless invited. Women who know exactly where they stand.

Then the Americans arrive.

Too loud. Too casual. Frat boys in linen and loafers. Bad boys with gold chains and easy grins. New York energy spilling into a space that runs on restraint.

Ethan moves through it all like he belongs anywhere. He laughs, introduces people to drinks, pulls me into stories from home. My friends orbit me, loud and affectionate, treating the estate like a backdrop instead of a boundary.

Men start watching.

Italian men. American men. Their eyes linger. Conversations pause when I pass. Someone tries to talk to me. Another reaches for my arm and thinks better of it when Marco’s gaze flicks over.

My brothers are busy. Always busy. Business whispered at the edges of the party, hands shaking, heads nodding, power passing quietly from one man to another.

Matteo stands apart from it, near the back, watching everything without moving much at all.

Watching me.

I feel it every time I laugh. Every time I dance. Every time someone leans in too close and I don’t step away fast enough.

The Americans get bored first.

Of course they do.

“This place is sick,” one of them says loudly, draining his drink. “But what’s next?”

Ethan grins. “There’s talk.”

“Talk of what?”

“Cars,” someone else says. “Fast ones.”

The word ripples. Drag racing. The kind of thing that feels like New York. Loud engines. No rules. A release valve.

I feel Matteo before I hear him.

“You’re not going.”

His voice is low, controlled, close to my ear.

I turn to face him. “I didn’t say I was.”

“You don’t need to,” he replies. “I can hear it.”

“They’re just talking.”

“They’re always just talking until someone gets hurt.”

I cross my arms. “I’m allowed to have fun.”

He looks at me steadily. “Fun isn’t neutral here.”

“Neither are you,” I shoot back.

His jaw tightens. “Stay.”

The word lands heavier than he intends.

I step back. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

His eyes flick over the crowd, the Americans already restless, already half gone. “If you leave with them, I won’t follow.”

“That’s supposed to scare me?”

“That’s supposed to keep you alive.”

We hold each other’s gaze for a second too long.

Then I turn away.

I choose noise. Movement. Laughter.

I leave with the Americans.

The road is dark and fast and stupid. Engines rev. People shout. Music blares too loud. It feels like freedom for exactly the amount of time it takes to become dangerous.

The car I’m in takes a turn too sharp.

Everything goes wrong at once.

Metal screams. Glass breaks. My body slams sideways and pain detonates in my ribs, white and blinding. The world tilts and then cuts out.

When I come back, it’s voices and headlights and hands that don’t know what they’re doing.

Then there’s another sound.

A different engine. Controlled. Furious.

Matteo is suddenly there.

Not calm. Not composed.

He drops to his knees in front of me, hands already checking, steady despite the shake I can see in his fingers.

“You don’t move,” he says, voice tight.

“I’m fine,” I try.

“You’re not.”

He lifts me without argument, without permission, without ceremony. The men around us step back immediately. Ethan looks sick.

Matteo doesn’t say another word until we’re in his car and the door is shut.

Then he drives.

Fast.

The house we arrive at isn’t my father’s.

It’s his.

Sharper lines. Fewer lights. A place built for control.

A man meets us at the door already awake, already prepared. Older. Calm. Doctor.

“She passed out,” Matteo says. “She was hit hard.”

The doctor nods once. “Bring her here.”

The world slips away again.

When I wake, everything hurts.

My chest is tight. My head throbs. My body feels heavy, like it’s been stitched back together slowly.

I hear voices first.

“She’s been out for two days,” the doctor says. “Concussion. Broken rib. She’ll recover.”

Matteo exhales like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.

I open my eyes.

He’s sitting beside the bed, jacket gone, sleeves rolled, hands clasped like he doesn’t trust them to stay still.

He looks at me like he’s furious and relieved and terrified all at once.

“You scared everyone,” I whisper.

“You scared me,” he replies.

Silence settles.

I try to sit up and regret it immediately. He’s there in a second, steadying me.

“Don’t,” he says.

I look at him, really look at him.

“You told me to stay,” I say.

“Yes.”

“I didn’t.”

“No.”

We hold each other’s gaze.

“This isn’t control,” he says quietly. “This is consequence.”

I swallow. “You brought me here.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

His voice is low. “Because I couldn’t trust anyone else with you.”

The weight of it presses down on me, heavier than pain.

Outside the window, the world keeps moving.

But something between us has shifted.

Irreversibly.