BLOOD VOWS AND WHITE LIES

The phone vibrated at three in the morning.

Liam O’Sullivan was already awake.

He lay still for half a second, staring at the ceiling, counting his breaths like it might stop what he already knew was coming. It didn’t. Nothing ever did. The war had trained him well—sleep came light, fractured, and never without consequences.

He reached for the phone on the second buzz.

“It’s time.”

His father’s voice was rough, worn thin by age and violence. Declan O’Sullivan had never been one for explanations, especially not now.

“The Council wants you. One hour. Come alone.”

The call ended before Liam could respond.

He sat up slowly, the weight of it settling into his chest as he looked out over the dark stretch of Hell’s Kitchen. The city glowed faintly below, restless and unaware. The Council didn’t summon people unless things were already beyond saving.

If they were involved, blood was already overdue.

He dressed without thinking—dark slacks, pressed shirt, jacket pulled on out of habit. His fingers brushed the scar at his temple, a reflex he hated and couldn’t break. Eight years hadn’t dulled it. Neither had time.

Eight years since an ambush that went wrong. Eight years since his brother stepped in front of a bullet meant for him.

Don’t spiral, he told himself.

He grabbed his keys and stepped into the night.

Across the city, in a quiet Long Island estate built on old money and older sins, Alessia Scarpetti stood in front of her childhood mirror.

She barely recognized the woman staring back.

She looked perfect—too perfect. Dark hair falling in controlled waves, makeup flawless, posture trained into her bones. This was the version her father liked. The obedient daughter. The Scarpetti princess.

Inside, her heart was racing.

“Alessia!”

Her father’s voice snapped down the hallway, sharp and impatient.

She smoothed her dress—black, always black—and left the room. The fabric felt heavy, like something meant to weigh her down. She wore it because it was expected. Because it reminded everyone who she belonged to.

Don Salvatore Scarpetti didn’t look up when she entered his study.

“Sit.”

She did, hands folded neatly in her lap, legs crossed just so. She had learned young that stillness was safer than defiance.

“The Council has requested you,” he said. “You’ll go. You’ll listen. And you’ll do exactly what they say.”

A chill ran through her.

The Council didn’t involve daughters. They dealt with men. With blood and territory and consequences.

“What do they want?” she asked, careful not to sound afraid.

Her father leaned back, smoke curling from his cigar. “Peace.”

The word felt like a lie.

“And you’re going to help give it to them.”

Her stomach dropped. “How?”

His eyes finally met hers. Cold. Assessing. Unyielding.

“You’ll find out.” He waved a hand. “The car’s waiting. Don’t embarrass me.”

She stood on unsteady legs, already knowing this meeting would change everything.

The warehouse near the Brooklyn docks felt dead the moment Liam stepped inside.

Concrete, rust, and silence. Neutral ground—meaning no one was protected.

Three figures sat behind a long table, faces lost to shadow. A mediator stood apart from them, immaculate and forgettable in an expensive suit. The kind of man whose presence meant something terrible was about to be said calmly.

“Mr. O’Sullivan,” the mediator said. “Thank you for coming.”

Liam didn’t bother with politeness. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“No,” the man agreed smoothly. “You didn’t.”

The door opened behind him.

Liam turned—and forgot, briefly, how to breathe.

She moved with purpose, every step measured. Dark hair. Sharp eyes. Composure like a weapon. She didn’t need an introduction.

Alessia Scarpetti.

Daughter of the man who had ordered his brother’s death.

Their eyes met. Something unreadable passed between them—recognition, resentment, something sharper. She took her place across the room, distance deliberate.

“Miss Scarpetti,” the mediator said. “Please.”

Neither of them sat.

One of the shadowed figures leaned forward. “This war has lasted twenty years. It has drained your families, disrupted the city, and exhausted our patience.”

Liam’s jaw tightened.

“It ends now.”

“We didn’t start it,” Liam said flatly.

“Neither did we,” Alessia shot back, finally turning toward him. “Your men killed three of ours last month.”

“After your people burned one of our shipments.”

“Enough.”

The mediator’s voice sliced through them both.

“This is not a negotiation,” he said. “It’s a decision.”

He stepped forward.

“The Council has determined that peace can only be secured through a union.”

Liam felt his stomach drop.

“A marriage.”

“No,” he said instantly.

“Absolutely not,” Alessia snapped.

“You will marry each other within one month,” the mediator continued, unbothered. “You will live together. You will present unity. And this war will end.”

“I won’t marry a Scarpetti,” Liam growled.

Alessia laughed, bitter and hollow. “Trust me. I’d rather choke.”

The mediator’s smile was thin. “Then you choose extinction.”

The word landed heavy.

Liam thought of his sister. Of the men who trusted him. Of his brother’s grave.

Alessia’s face had gone pale.

“You have twenty-four hours,” the mediator said. “Decide.”

“And if we don’t?” Liam asked.

The mediator’s eyes were empty. “You’ll understand.”

Liam didn’t sleep.

He sat alone, drink untouched, rage coiling tight in his chest.

Marry her. Live with her. Smile for the city.

His phone buzzed.

The Council doesn’t bluff. Do what you have to do.

The glass left his hand before he realized it. It shattered against the wall, amber splashing like blood.

Alessia gripped the sink, breathing hard.

Marry Liam O’Sullivan.

She thought of her mother’s coffin. Of the evidence she’d hidden. Of the life she was supposed to escape.

This marriage could destroy her.

Or save everything.

By morning, the message was clear.

Tommy Regan lay dead in an SUV in front of the O’Sullivan resident, a note pinned to his chest.

Compliance is not optional.

Marco Vitale’s blood stained the Scarpetti driveway.

Alessia couldn’t scream. Couldn’t move.

Her father stood beside her.

“Now you understand,” he said.

She did.

Marry.

Or die.