Isabella Moretti had never been afraid of blood. That was part of why she had chosen this life—stitching wounds, stabilizing the dying, cleaning the messes no one else could handle. But even in her years at the city hospital, she had never faced anything like the alley behind Piazza Nero.
The rain had stopped, leaving the cobblestones slick and glistening under the dim glow of the streetlamps. Shadows stretched and swirled, hiding figures that moved like predators. She had come to this alley because of a call she didn't fully understand—a faint, frantic whisper that there was someone injured, someone bleeding, someone in danger.
When she rounded the corner, the first thing she noticed was the sound: grunts, curses, and the sickening snap of a body hitting stone. Three men were sprawled across the ground, their suits torn, their faces bruised, hands trembling over weapons that were useless now. But it was the fourth man who drew her attention.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair slicked back, wet from the drizzle. And eyes—cold, calculated, unblinking—that seemed to slice through the chaos. He didn't move like the others, didn't panic, didn't even breathe quickly. He simply observed.
Her instincts screamed at her to run. And yet, she couldn't. Her feet were rooted as if the wet cobblestones themselves had grabbed her.
"Step aside," the man said, low and deliberate, the words carrying a weight that made her flinch. Not a question. Not a warning. A command.
She stepped back, unwillingly, her heart hammering. The men on the ground scrambled, one reaching for a gun, and she reacted without thinking, pushing him aside. The weapon went off. The sound cracked the night like a whip, echoing between the alley walls. Isabella stumbled back, her ears ringing, the metallic tang of blood strong in the air.
The man's gaze never left her. Not once. There was no judgment, no approval, only the same cold calculation. And then, just as abruptly as it had started, the fight ended. The three men on the ground were unconscious, moaning faintly. The fourth man approached her. Slowly. Every step deliberate, predatory.
"You shouldn't be here," he said. His voice was smooth, low, and sharp—like a razor against silk.
"I… I was just trying to help," she stammered, the adrenaline making her words sharp, defensive.
He studied her, eyes narrowing slightly. "No one survives by helping anyone in this alley. Not by choice."
She swallowed hard, trying to steady her shaking hands. "Then why are you… why aren't you—"
"Dead?" His lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile, dangerous and cold. "Because I decide who lives. And you… are not yet dead."
Before she could react, he stepped closer, so close that she could see the faint scars along his jawline and the intensity of his eyes. They were the eyes of a man who had seen everything, done everything, and expected nothing to surprise him. And yet… something in her presence seemed to intrigue him.
"Why me?" she asked, her voice trembling.
He tilted his head slightly. "You're different."
The words didn't comfort her. They made her skin crawl. And yet, some part of her couldn't look away.
A sudden movement—a groan from one of the unconscious men—broke the tension. The tall man turned sharply, assessing the alley like a general surveying a battlefield. Then, in a motion too fast for her to follow, he moved to her side. "Come with me," he said.
"I'm not going anywhere with you!" she shouted, backing away.
"You don't have a choice," he said, his tone final, unyielding.
Before she could react again, he grabbed her arm—not roughly, but with an unshakable grip—and guided her toward a sleek black car waiting at the end of the alley. Isabella struggled, heart racing, mind spinning. Who was this man? Why did he have this power over life and death?
The ride was silent, save for the quiet hum of the engine and the relentless pounding of her heart in her ears. She tried to memorize the streets, plan an escape, but every turn seemed to take her deeper into the unknown.
Finally, the car stopped. The mansion looming ahead of her was more intimidating than anything she had ever seen. Marble pillars, towering gates, guards stationed with lethal precision—it wasn't just a home. It was a fortress.
"You're safe here," he said, finally breaking the silence as he led her inside. "For now."
She wanted to laugh, but it caught in her throat. Safe? She had been kidnapped, dragged into a world she didn't understand, and yet… there was something about the calm authority in his voice that made her pause. Something that made her wonder if defiance alone would be enough to survive…
He released her arm, stepping back. "Rest. Eat. Think carefully. Everything from now on is your choice—if you survive."
And for the first time, Isabella understood. Nothing would ever be the same. The world she thought she knew—the world of hospitals and healing, of helping and saving—was gone. This was the beginning of something far darker, far more dangerous. And it had a name: Alessandro De Luca.
Her life had collided with his world, and she was already Bounded by Blood.