Betrayal and Bloodlines

Lyla Rose

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I sob louder, my body trembling as I hear footsteps approaching. Suddenly, the door slams open, and in steps Carter Ricci, Vincent’s uncle, the mafia king. Before anyone can react, he strides toward me with purpose, his eyes burning with an intensity that makes everything else fade. In one swift movement, he scoops me up into his strong, muscular arms.

“Step back,” he warns the guards coldly, his voice commanding. The air shifts, thick with his presence. He turns his gaze toward Vincent, growling, “You're no longer my nephew. You're no longer part of the Ricci empire.”

Vincent’s face turns red with rage as he yells, “What the fuck do you think you're doing, Carter?”

Carter’s voice is low, deadly, as he responds, “I’m taking what’s rightfully mine, away from this goddamn palace, and away from you.”

I can barely breathe, my body on the verge of collapse from the emotional stress and the drugs still coursing through my veins. I limp in Carter’s arms, unable to hold myself up. He catches me, his grip firm but gentle, holding me against his chest. He presses a kiss to my forehead, soothing me in his arms as he turns and walks away from Vincent, not looking back.

“She’s not going back to you, ever again, Vincent,” Carter says coldly, carrying me past the chaos, out of the room and into the waiting black sedan. The cool air hits me as the car pulls away. The journey feels endless, my vision darkening, and I faint in Carter’s lap.

I regain consciousness, hours later, in a massive, luxurious bedroom. The silk black sheets on the oversized bed feel foreign beneath my skin. I try to make sense of what happened, but the confusion is overwhelming. I glance around and spot him, Carter Ricci, sitting in an armchair, a cigar resting between his fingers. The room smells faintly of smoke.

The reality hits me hard. I’m divorced. Abandoned by Vincent for being infertile. Alone. But why would Carter, his own uncle, bring me here?

My throat is dry, aching. I whisper weakly, my voice barely audible, “Water.”

Carter hears me, and his dark eyes soften. He puts out the cigar quickly, stands, and walks toward the bed. He sits beside me, his presence like a weight I can’t escape. Gently, he lifts my head, his rough hands surprisingly careful as he brings a glass of water to my lips. “Shh, drink slowly, princessa,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady.

I sit up, my hands trembling as I take the glass. I sip quietly, my body weak. His eyes never leave me, intense, almost possessive, as if he’s studying me.

Once I finish drinking, he takes the glass from my hands and sets it down beside the bed. He’s only wearing black boxers, his tattooed body on full display. His muscles are lean, his dark hair messy. His presence is commanding, his gaze sharp. He's tall, almost 6'4", the ruthless mafia king. And here I am, on his bed, utterly lost.

“Do you remember anything?” he asks, his voice softer now, but the same unyielding power in it.

I close my eyes, trying to push the memory of Vincent away, but it floods back. The betrayal. Maria. The drugs. The papers.

“He married Maria,” I choke out, my voice trembling. “He drugged me, made me sign the divorce papers, because I’m infertile.” My words break, and I sob again, the pain overwhelming.

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Carter Ricci

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My jaw clenches at the mention of Maria’s name. I hate that bitch, but I hate my fucking nephew more. Vincent deserves everything that’s coming to him. I pull Rose into my arms, letting her cry against my chest, feeling the tremors in her body. I hate seeing her like this. I hate the pain she’s carrying, pain caused by my nephew.

“Stop crying, Rose,” I murmur, my voice low, almost gentle, as I stroke her hair, trying to soothe her even though my own anger boils beneath the surface.

She sobs harder, trembling against me, before pulling away slightly. She wipes her face, but her hands shake. Her voice cracks as she speaks, almost a whisper, “I want to go back to London.”

Her words hit me like a punch, a quiet plea that twists something inside me. The last thing I want is for her to feel abandoned, and even less so for her to leave. My grip tightens around her waist, pulling her back against me before she can pull further away. I look down at her, my dark eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that makes the air thick between us.

“No,” I say simply, my voice low and commanding, as I watch a tear fall down her cheek, each drop like a knife to my chest. My stubbled jaw ticks as I fight the urge to hold her tighter, to tell her that I would never let her go. But I can’t say that, not yet. Instead, I watch her, my expression hardening, and repeat, my voice firmer now, “You’re not going anywhere.”

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Lyla Rose

_____

"Why not?" I ask, wiping my face, still not understanding. I was born in London and raised in an orphanage. I worked hard to rent an apartment, coding for a software company. It helped me cope with being alone, with surviving in a world that didn’t care. But I was stupid, stupid for coming to Italy, stupid for falling in love with Vincent, the man who shattered my heart so easily. Now I have nothing left here. I know I have to go back. Away from this hell. Away from people who never chose me.

Before I can say anything more, Carter’s hand shoots out, gripping my chin firmly, forcing me to meet his heated gaze. His dark eyes blaze with something I can't quite decipher: obsession, hunger, possessiveness, all tangled together. It’s all too much, too intense.

“You have me,” he growls, his thumb tracing my bottom lip roughly, his touch sending a strange jolt through me. “London is behind you now, Rose.”

I feel my chest tighten, the weight of his words pressing down on me. London? Behind me? Can it really be that easy to leave everything I’ve ever known?

“You’re his uncle, his blood,” I snap, frustration bubbling up. “Why should I trust you? Besides, I’m your nephew’s ex-wife. I don’t have any reason to be with you.” I try to pull away from him, my heart racing with a mix of fear and anger, but he doesn’t let me.

In one swift motion, he forces me to straddle him, his hands gripping my hips as he leans back against the headboard. I freeze, my breath catching in my throat.

He smirks darkly, his hands possessively holding me in place as I straddle him. The smell of his cigarette-laced breath fans over my face, mingling with the heat between us. “Because, unlike that piece of shit nephew of mine, I actually give a fuck about you,” he growls. His voice drops, low and almost threatening, sending a shiver down my spine.

“Let go of me,” I whimper, struggling slightly, trying to pull away, but his grip tightens painfully around my hips, pulling me flush against him. I can feel something hard pressing against me through his boxers, and it sends a wave of discomfort and confusion over me.

“Make me,” he dares, his dark eyes challenging me to fight back, to resist him. It’s a challenge, and I feel every part of my body trembling with a mixture of fear and a twisted sense of attraction that I can’t explain.