Page 2 of Ruined By Blood (Feretti Syndicate #2)

T he 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.

My fingers grip my glass tighter as the bartender straightens his posture. Footsteps approach—unhurried, confident. The scent of expensive cologne reaches me, something woodsy with hints of amber and spice. Not overpowering like the cloying fragrances my father's associates prefer.

Without turning my head, I'm aware of his presence settling at the bar, several seats away. The bartender moves immediately to serve him, abandoning other customers.

"Mr. Feretti, good evening," he says, voice pitched with respect. "The usual?"

I don't hear the response, but the bartender nods and begins preparing something with practiced efficiency.

My pulse quickens despite myself. Not from fear—at least, not entirely. This isn't the same dread that accompanies my father's "business associates." This is different, unfamiliar.

I stare at the ice melting in my drink, hyperaware of every sound.

The skin at the nape of my neck prickles. He's looking at me.

I don't move. I've learned the art of invisibility, of making myself small and unnoticeable.

I fight the urge to glance his way, fixing my attention on the ripples in my drink as I swirl the glass slowly.

"Red isn't your color. "

The voice—low, commanding. I continue staring at my drink, assuming he's speaking to someone else. No one speaks to me unless they want something, and this man doesn't know me.

The silence stretches. Something about it feels weighted, expectant.

I risk a glance around. No one stands nearby except the bartender, who's found something fascinating to clean at the far end of the bar.

"I said, red isn't your color."

This time I look up, meeting dark eyes that study me with unsettling intensity.

The man—Enzo Feretti—sits three stools away, an untouched drink before him.

He wears a black suit that makes his shoulders look impossibly broad.

Tattoos peek from beneath his collar, disappearing under expensive fabric.

"Are you speaking to me?" My voice comes out smaller than I intended.

His mouth quirks slightly at one corner—not quite a smile. "Do you see anyone else wearing a dress they clearly hate?"

Heat rushes to my face. I drop my gaze back to my drink, fingers tightening around the cool glass. "I don't hate it." The lie tastes bitter.

"You haven't stopped fidgeting with it since you walked in." He takes a sip from his glass, eyes never leaving my face. "And you keep your shoulders hunched like you're trying to disappear inside it."

My spine stiffens automatically. How long has he been watching me?

"Blue would suit you better." He says this matter-of-factly, as though discussing the weather. "Something soft. Not this... costume."

I study her while I wait for her response, taking inventory of the woman who's caught my attention.

Her eyes are the first thing that captivate me—icy blue. They dart nervously around the room, never settling in one place too long. Like prey sensing a predator nearby.

The dress is wrong for her. Too tight across her slender shoulders, too revealing for someone who clearly wants to disappear.

The fabric highlights curves she's trying to hide, making her a target in a room full of hungry wolves.

Red marks her as merchandise. Available. For sale to the highest bidder.

Her hands tell a different story—delicate but strong, fingers twisting the napkin beneath her untouched drink. Manicured nails painted a soft pink.

Dark hair falls in waves past her shoulders, one strand caught against her neck where a pulse beats rapidly. She's afraid. Of me? Of someone else? Both, probably.

She parts her lips to speak, voice barely audible over the casino noise. "I don't know what?—"

A hand emerges from the crowd, wrapping possessively around her waist. The touch makes her stiffen, though she tries to hide her reaction.

"There you are, querida. I've been looking everywhere. "

A man appears—mid-fifties, Cuban accent, gaudy Rolex that screams new money.

I don't like the way his fingers dig into her side, don't like how she shrinks beneath his touch while forcing a smile that doesn't reach those blue eyes.

"Hello," she murmurs. "I apologize for the delay."

His gaze slides to me. He nods. "I hope my companion hasn't bothered you."

"Your companion and I were having a private conversation." My voice drops lower.

His fingers tighten around her waist, and something dark flashes in my gut.

"She's my property for the evening." He says this with a smirk that makes my knuckles itch.

The pieces click together in my head. A paid companion. Not my business, not my problem.

But the way she flinches when he squeezes her hip—that becomes my problem.

"Property?" I repeat the word slowly, letting it sit heavy in the air between us. "Interesting choice of words for a guest in my establishment."

He laughs, oblivious to the shift in temperature and the fact that he knows now I own this fucking place. "Come now, we're all businessmen here. You know how these arrangements work."

The woman keeps her eyes fixed on the floor. Her shoulders curl inward like she's trying to disappear inside herself.

I step closer, invading his personal space. The woman's eyes widen, flicking between us like she's calculating the blast radius of an impending explosion.

"It's time for us to leave," he announces, his voice hardening. "We have business to discuss. "

He leans down, his lips brushing against her ear. His whisper is too low for me to catch, but I see her face pale slightly, her fingers curling into fists.

If she's in trouble, all she needs to do is say something. One word. One look. I own this casino—I can have security here in seconds. I can make him disappear permanently if needed. La famiglia protects innocents, even if we're not innocent ourselves.

I catch her gaze, raising an eyebrow. A silent question.

She swallows hard, then straightens her spine. "Mr. Feretti, it was nice meeting you, but we should go."

Something in her tone doesn't match the fear in her eyes, but her words are clear. I study her face, looking for any sign she wants me to intervene.

"You heard the lady," the bastard says, his confidence returning now that she's backed him up. "We have arrangements to finalize."

"Arrangements," I repeat, letting my disgust show.

He tightens his grip on the woman's waist, steering her away.

As they turn to leave, she glances back over her shoulder at me. The look in her eyes isn't something I can easily categorize—not quite fear, not exactly pleading. Something complex that speaks of resignation and secrets.