Page 2 of Ruined By Blood
The pills he's referring to sit in my bathroom cabinet. His doctor prescribes them. His doctor prescribes everything in this house.
When the door clicks shut behind him, I allow myself three deep breaths. Just three. Counting each one like it's precious. Then I straighten my spine and cross to the closet.
CHAPTER 2
The Venetian Rose Casino is a living, breathing monster swallowing me whole. Crystal chandeliers cast glittering light across a sea of bodies—laughing, drinking, gambling away fortunes while I drift between them like a ghost. The constant symphony of slot machines, clinking glasses, and overlapping conversations pounds against my skull.
"Another drink, miss?" A server appears at my elbow with a tray of champagne flutes.
I shake my head, fingers twisting the silky fabric of my dress. "No, thank you."
The man disappears into the crowd, leaving me alone again in this glittering hell. I've been wandering for twenty minutes, delaying the inevitable meeting with Mr. Cortez.Father's "business associate" who somehow requires my presence.
The casino floor stretches endlessly before me—roulette wheels spinning, cards slapping against green felt tables, diamonds flashing on wrists and throats of women who aren't being sold off piece by piece. My reflection catches in a mirrored pillar. The red dress Father chose clings like blood to my skin, my mother's diamonds cold against my throat.
A woman nearby laughs too loudly as chips pile up before her. A dealer calls out numbers I can't focus on. The smoke from cigars mingles with perfumes, making my stomach twist.
I drift toward a less crowded area, seeking air that isn't thick with other people's breath. My heels sink into plush carpeting as I pass a bar where businessmen huddle over amber liquids, discussing deals I want no part of.
I find a quiet corner of the bar, leaning against the polished mahogany surface. My fingers trace the cool wood, focusing on its texture to ground myself.
"Gin and tonic," I tell the bartender, not because I want it but because standing empty-handed draws more attention.
Two men in suits stand a few feet away, heads bent close. I don't mean to listen, but their voices carry just enough.
"Feretti's people will be here tonight," says the shorter one, salt-and-pepper hair slicked back. "The youngest brother, not the hothead."
"Both families own this place, right?" asks his companion, swirling amber liquid in a crystal tumbler.
"Fifty-fifty split. The Venetian Rose is neutral ground—Feretti and Sartori territory."
My fingers tighten around my glass. Feretti. The name means nothing to me, yet these men speak it with reverence tinged with fear.
Father has kept me isolated from his world, parading me only when needed, locked away when not. I know he has "business associates" and "partners," but names, faces, and organizations remain mysteries.
"They say the younger Feretti brother put three bullets in Donovan's skull last month," the first man continues, voice dropping lower.
"Family business," his friend replies with a shrug. "Besides, the older one—Damiano—he's the real power. Calculated. Ice in his veins."
The bartender slides my drink across the counter. The cold glass numbs my fingertips as I lift it to my lips without drinking.
These men talk about murder like it's a weather report.
"The Feretti girl is supposedly a beauty," the shorter man says. "Keep her locked up tight, though. Protective bastards."
A family that protects their daughter. The concept feels foreign, almost mythical.
"Another empire built on blood," the second man says, clinking his glass against his friend's. "But damn good business partners if you stay on their good side."
The shorter man suddenly stiffens, his gaze darting toward the entrance. He grabs his companion's arm, whiskey sloshing in his glass.
"He's coming here," he mutters, voice dropping to a whisper. "Enzo Feretti. Let's go."
The second man doesn't argue. They abandon their drinks and move away from the bar with practiced casualness that doesn't quite mask their retreat.
I keep my eyes fixed on my untouched gin and tonic, watching the condensation bead down the glass. Yet somehow, I feel the shift in the room—like the air pressure changes when a storm approaches.
The casino's ambient noise seems to dim, or perhaps my senses have sharpened. I don't look up. I don't need to. I can recognize that a predator has entered the space.
