Beneath the Blood Moon
Chapter One: The Don's Daughter
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Venice, Italy
The night I met him, the moon hung low over the Grand Canal, swollen and red like it had witnessed too many secrets. I was wearing a black silk gown, slit high at the thigh, my hair pinned in waves just as my father liked — elegant, presentable, untouchable.
My name is Alessia Bianchi, daughter of Don Romano Bianchi, head of one of the most feared Mafia families in Northern Italy. And I was not allowed to fall in love.
Certainly not with a man like Matteo De Luca — our sworn enemy.
He appeared as if conjured from smoke and shadow, stepping from the corner of the garden where no guest should have been. I had slipped away from the masquerade ball inside, needing air, needing freedom — and there he was, leaning against the ancient marble of my family's fountain like he belonged to it.
"Beautiful night for a prison," he said.
I turned. "This is my home."
He smiled — not mocking, not cruel. Just... honest. "And yet you're outside, alone, like you can't breathe in there."
I should've walked away.
Instead, I said, "What do you know about prisons made of gold and silk?"
"I was born behind bars made of blood," he replied.
He stepped closer. The air changed. It felt heavier, tighter. His voice was low, his accent southern — Naples, maybe.
"What's your name?" I asked, unable to stop myself.
He studied me. "You already know who I am."
And I did.
Matteo De Luca. Youngest son of Don Antonio De Luca — the man who'd ordered the hit on my cousin, who ran guns through the same shipping routes my father used, who had caused the latest war between the families.
He shouldn't have been here.
And I shouldn't have wanted him.
But in the shadows of the Bianchi estate, beneath the red moon and the stone angels watching from the garden walls, the Mafia rules didn't apply. Only we existed.
"You shouldn't be here," I whispered.
He stepped closer, close enough for me to see the scar on his lower lip, like a permanent reminder that nothing about him was soft. "Neither should you."
The tension between us stretched like a blade.
"Alessia!" A voice rang from inside. My father. Sharp. Commanding.
I didn't turn. Neither did Matteo.
"I'll see you again," he said.
I should've told him no.
Instead, I said, "I hope so."
And just like that, he vanished into the night.
---
The next morning, the city felt different — like Venice knew I had crossed a line. The canals shimmered as always, the gondoliers sang like nothing had changed. But I had changed.
"Do you know who he is?" I asked my cousin Sofia as we sat at a café overlooking the water. "Matteo De Luca."
Her espresso paused mid-air. "Why would you say that name?"
I hesitated. "No reason."
But Sofia wasn't stupid. "Alessia, if the Don ever caught you thinking about a De Luca, he'd send you to that convent in Florence. You remember what happened to Beatrice."
I remembered. My older cousin, engaged to a rival's son — vanished overnight. Convent, exile, or worse. No one ever said the word "dead," but silence can be its own kind of grave.
---
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I stood on the same balcony where I first saw the blood moon. The city was quiet, but my heart wasn't.
And then — I saw him again.
On the water, standing at the back of a black gondola, his dark coat billowing slightly in the breeze. His eyes found mine like a magnet through the fog.
How did he get this close? Was he following me?
Was this love or was it danger?
Maybe both.
I slipped into the night without a second thought.
---
In a narrow alley behind the Basilica, we met again — wordless this time. His hands found my waist like they had always belonged there. His mouth found mine like he had been starving.
We kissed like two people who knew time was a thief. A kiss that burned like a confession.
"I should kill you," he breathed against my lips.
"I should scream," I whispered.
But neither of us moved.
"I can't stop thinking about you," he said. "And I don't want to."
I pressed my forehead to his chest, listening to the madness of his heartbeat.
"My father would kill us both," I said.
His arms tightened around me. "Then let's make it worth it."
I returned home before sunrise, shoes in hand, heart still racing. The servants hadn't stirred yet. The hallways were quiet.
But my father was awake.
"Where were you?" he asked without turning around. He stood in front of the fireplace, his voice like chilled wine — calm, controlled, dangerous.
"I went for a walk," I lied.
He finally turned. His eyes — the same ones I inherited — studied me like a puzzle he intended to solve.
"Next time," he said, "take a bodyguard. You're not safe alone."
"No one's safe in this family," I replied, then immediately regretted it.
He stared at me for one long moment.
Then he smiled. "You're starting to sound like your mother."
That wasn't a compliment.
Later that day, I found a letter slipped under my bedroom door.
Midnight. The old opera house. Come alone. — M
I should've burned it.
Instead, I memorized every word.
To be continued…