Chapter 14 – Bloodlines

• The storm had rolled in just past midnight—low thunder growling across the Italian sky like some ancient beast awakened from its slumber. Alina stood by the wide window in the master suite, her gaze unfocused on the windswept hills of the estate. The air was heavy with the scent of rain and something else—restlessness.
• Luciano hadn’t come to bed.
• It wasn’t unusual. Since their wedding, he often disappeared at night, always returning before dawn, cold and composed, as if whatever he did while she slept was none of her concern.
• But tonight, Alina couldn’t ignore the nagging pull in her chest. Something wasn’t right.
• She stepped away from the window, barefoot and silent, her silk nightgown whispering around her ankles. The house was quiet in a way that felt unnatural—no footsteps, no voices, just the distant creak of the wind pressing against the glass.
• She slipped out of the bedroom and into the corridor, heart pounding like it knew what her mind refused to name.
• Halfway down the hallway, she heard it: the soft thud of a door closing below.
• The west wing.
• That wing was always locked.
• She followed.
• Her steps were careful, measured. Every inch of her skin was alert, her breath shallow. As she reached the corridor’s end, she noticed something odd—a faint line of light beneath what had always appeared to be a blank wall.
• She approached, fingers grazing the surface.
• A small panel, nearly invisible, sat in the molding. She pressed it.
• A soft click.
• The wall shifted, revealing a narrow stone staircase winding downward into darkness.
• Her pulse roared in her ears, but she descended anyway. One step. Then another. And another.
• The air turned colder, damp with secrets.
• At the bottom, a heavy steel door loomed before her. It was ajar.
• Alina slipped inside.
• The room was a vault—not of gold or art or weapons—but of truth.
• Rows of cabinets lined the walls. A massive mahogany desk stood in the center, scattered with folders, old photographs, and handwritten letters.
• And there, with his back to her, stood Luciano.
• She froze.
• He hadn’t heard her.
• A soft crunch under her foot—paper.
• He turned.
• The moment their eyes met, Alina expected rage. Fury. A command to leave.
• Instead, Luciano’s face remained unreadable.
• “You shouldn’t be here,” he said quietly.
• “I could say the same about you.”
• She stepped further inside, defiance balancing on trembling legs.
• He said nothing. Didn’t move. Just watched.
• Her gaze dropped to the nearest file on the desk—her name on the tab.
• She reached for it.
• Luciano didn’t stop her.
• The folder opened with a whisper. Inside: hospital records, school photos, college transcripts, even the note she had written to her mother when she was six—I miss you.
• Tears stung her eyes. “Why do you have this?”
• Luciano didn’t answer, just stared at her.
• She looked up sharply. “Answer me.”
• He stepped aside, revealing another folder beneath hers. Elena Rayne.
• Alina’s breath caught.
• Her mother’s name.
• She snatched it up and opened it.
• A photograph slid out—her mother, smiling, standing in a summer garden. Young, radiant… and not alone.
• Next to her was a younger version of Luciano. Barely twenty. Shirt sleeves rolled up, hands in his pockets, but his expression—his gaze—was fixed only on Elena.
• Alina stared.
• “No,” she whispered. “That can’t be.”
• “She was everything,” Luciano said softly. “Smart. Brave. Unapologetically kind. And she loved art like it was oxygen.”
• He moved around the desk, slowly, as if crossing a graveyard of his past.
• “She worked for my father,” he continued. “She was an archivist, cataloging centuries of records in our estate library, but she loved to paint. I secretly made that art studio so she would paint and I would watch her. I was seventeen when I first saw her. She was nineteen, already engaged to the man who would become your father.”
• Alina’s knees weakened. She gripped the desk to steady herself.
• “You loved her,” she said, not a question.
• Luciano’s eyes flickered with pain. “Desperately. For years, silently. And when she finally admitted she loved me too, it was already too late, she was pregnant for him, I told her I still loved her and we would raise the baby together but…..”
• “She still left,” Alina whispered.
• “She was forced to leave.” His jaw tightened. “My father found out. He threatened her. Threatened you. You were only a heartbeat in her belly then, but she knew he’d destroy everything she loved. So she ran. Back to your father.”
• Luciano looked away, his voice dipping. “She sent me letters, pictures of you. She knew I loved you.”
• Alina felt her world tilting, unraveling thread by thread.
• “And my father?” she asked.
• Luciano’s gaze hardened. “Your father knew everything. About me. About Elena. About you. And he still sold you. Just like he betrayed her, he betrayed you.”
• Alina stumbled back.
• “No,” she said, shaking her head. “He… he made bad choices, but he loved us.”
• “He loved money.” Luciano’s voice was sharp now, slicing. “He gambled everything away. And when the debts came knocking, he remembered the one person who still wanted something he had.”
• He stepped closer. “You.”
• Alina’s breath caught in her throat.
• “Why didn’t you tell me?” she whispered.
• “Because you would never have believed me. And I needed you to hate me first.”
• Tears gathered behind her eyes, but she blinked them away.
• Luciano reached out and touched her cheek—gentle, almost reverent. “I lost your mother because I hesitated. I won’t make the same mistake twice.”
• Alina stepped back.
• “I’m not her,” she said, voice cracking.
• “I know,” he replied. “You’re stronger.”
• Her heart twisted violently. “Did you ever love her more than you love me now?”
• A long silence fell between them. The air felt too thin.
• Luciano looked down, then back up—his eyes raw. “I don’t compare the past to the present. But I will tell you this… I mourned Elena like a man without lungs. But you?” His voice dropped. “You’re the second breath I never thought I’d get.”
• Alina didn’t know how to respond.
• She turned and fled the vault, her mind a storm of betrayal and memories and something far more dangerous—compassion.
• Up the stairs, through the halls, into the master suite where she slammed the door behind her and collapsed onto the bed.
• Her fingers shook as she reached for the small drawer near the nightstand.
• Inside, the picture she’d found days ago—her as a child, in her mother’s style—mocked her with its innocence.
• But now she saw it differently.
• There, in the background of the picture, half-hidden behind the curves of a tree, was a figure she hadn’t noticed before.
• A man.
• Watching.
• Always watching.