Chapter 7 - Blood is Thicker Than Steel
Arthur Duca’s private estate sat on the northern tip of the Bell Haven peninsula, a sprawling, gothic fortress of dark stone and iron gates that overlooked the churning black waters of the bay.
We didn’t knock.
Roman’s armored SUV smashed through the ornamental iron security gates like they were made of balsa wood, tires screeching against the wet gravel as we slid to a halt right in front of the grand double doors. Before the vehicle had even fully stopped, Roman’s men poured out, securing the perimeter with military precision.
I sat in the passenger seat, my heart hammering against my ribs, but the paralyzing fear I had felt earlier that morning had completely vanished, replaced by a cold, searing anger. Twenty years of stolen identity, a murdered family, a fake life built on lies, and a wedding night turned into a massacre—it all led back to this house.
Roman opened my door, offering his uninjured hand. I took it, stepping down onto the wet gravel with my head held high.
“Stay behind me,” he murmured.
“I’m done standing behind people, Roman,” I replied, pulling my hand away and walking up the stone steps right beside him.
The front doors swung open before we even reached the threshold.
Arthur Duca stood in the grand foyer, holding a crystal glass of amber scotch. He looked completely unbothered, dressed in an immaculate velvet smoking jacket, flanked by four armed mercenaries holding tactical shotguns.
“Well, well,” Arthur purred, a sickeningly warm smile spreading across his wrinkled face. “Nephew! I hear wedding night celebrations in Bell Haven can get a little... rowdy, but crashing my gates at dawn? That’s hardly proper etiquette for a newlywed.”
Roman didn’t smile. He didn’t even blink. He simply stepped into the foyer, his eyes locked onto his uncle like a predator tracking a wounded animal.
“The wedding was a disaster, Uncle,” Roman said, his voice dangerously soft. “Mostly because uninvited guests tracked mud all over my floor and tried to kill my wife.”
Arthur chuckled, taking a slow sip of his scotch. “Ah, yes. The little dressmaker. Tragic business about the glass, really. I always said marrying beneath your station would bring bad luck. Though I suppose, given her... true heritage, bad luck runs in the family, doesn't it?”
The air in the room instantly dropped twenty degrees.
Roman’s hand twitched near his holster, but Arthur raised a single finger, his smile widening into something truly malevolent.
“Did you really think you could hide her from me, Roman?” Arthur sneered, his eyes shifting past my husband to lock onto mine. “Little Kiara Valente. The rat that slipped through the floorboards twenty years ago. When my men found out that Henry Whitmore’s little sewing project was actually the rightful heiress to the entire harbor syndicate, do you know what I realized?”
“You realized your time was up,” I stepped forward, my voice cutting cleanly through the grand hall.
Arthur’s eyes flicked to me, genuine amusement dancing in his wrinkled features. “My dear child, you don’t understand the game. If you’re alive, the old Valente charters give you legal veto power over every shipping route my nephew currently controls. But if both of you die in a tragic domestic dispute tonight... well, the Duca family keeps the land, and I take the throne.”
He snapped his fingers.
Instantly, the four mercenaries flanking him raised their shotguns, aiming directly at our chests.
At the exact same microsecond, the French doors behind Arthur shattered inward.
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Victor and three Duca loyalists dropped from the second-story indoor balcony, their assault rifles leveled squarely at the back of Arthur’s guards.
The room froze in a terrifying Mexican standoff.
