Page 22 of Blood Heir

Her words are a slap. A loud, grating slap, and I hold my hands over my ears, trying to block out the sound, but it does nothing. She’s still yelling, still throwing those angry words at me like weapons.

I don’t move. I stand there for a moment, letting her voice pierce through me, forcing me to feel the full weight of her rage. The headache that’s been gnawing at me all evening intensifies with every second.

I can’t take it anymore. I snap my fingers, and a guard steps forward with the key. The sound of the chains clinking is like a metal song of defiance, each link being unlocked one by one.

As soon as the cuffs fall away, Fioretta bursts free, her body jerking with the sudden movement. She hits me hard in the chest with both hands, the force of it sending a small shockwave through my body.

“You’re a jerk!” she says, her voice still loud, but with something that feels almost empty, like a scream that’s already been spent. Her hands are pushed against me.

She stares at me for a long moment, panting, her chest heaving. Her eyes, wild and sharp, dart between me and the bed. She finally stops, her shoulders sinking as she collapses onto the bed, letting out a small, exhausted sigh.

“Go get me dinner,” she says, the words barely above a whisper, but there’s no gentleness in her tone.

I stand there, frozen, shocked at how quickly the energy in the room has shifted.

She lifts her head, those eyes of hers narrowing as she glares at me. “Why are you standing there looking stupid?”she says, her voice sharp, pushing me further into the haze of confusion. “Get me a fucking meal.”

Her words are like a command, a bitter plea wrapped in anger. I stand still for a moment longer, letting her gaze press into me. Then, suddenly, I’m moving, a rush of action that feels like a release. My feet carry me toward the door before I even realize it.

I half-run out of the room, my heart still pounding, but as soon as I reach the hallway, I force myself to compose. I remind myself—I am Serevin. The boss. The Mafia don.

The kitchen feels almost like an alien world. I’ve been in this house for years, and yet, here I am, standing by the stove like a damn amateur. It’s far beneath my usual role, but tonight, I don’t care. There’s something about Fioretta’s demands that’s chipped away at my composure.

I can feel the eyes of the guards, even though they’re not saying anything. I know they’re probably laughing under their breath. They’re used to seeing me in suits, barking orders, commanding respect, not microwaving leftovers.

The fridge hums like a living thing, mocking me as I stare at the leftovers inside. I pick up a few things, then move to the microwave, feeling like I’m being watched by every goddamn guard in this house. As the microwave whirs to life, I look out the kitchen window, hoping I won’t be caught. I can’t even make a meal without feeling like I’m going to be exposed. A small part of me wants to laugh at how ridiculous this is, but it’s embarrassing.

The microwave beeps, and I grab the food, hurrying to assemble the tray. I wince as I hear the faint sound of footsteps outside the kitchen door. Of course, they’re watching me. As Iwalk toward the stairs, the guards stand straighter, their eyes shifting to me in silent surprise.

I reach the bedroom door, and Fioretta is waiting, her gaze flicking up just as I enter. She stands up eagerly, like she’s been waiting for this moment. She grabs the tray from my hands almost too quickly, her eyes wide with hunger, her excitement palpable.

She sits down cross-legged on the floor, and without any further hesitation, she starts eating. Her movements are quick, almost frantic, like she hasn’t had a decent meal in ages. She tears into it, not caring about manners. The way her mouth moves, her eyes fixed on the food, is almost like she’s starved for something more than just sustenance.

But then, she looks up at me, crumbs on her lips, and something in me softens.

“Have you eaten?” she asks, her voice light, with a hint of sarcasm. “You’ve been cooped up in that study all day. Come on, sit and eat.”

For a second, I think about refusing, but the tension of the day presses down on me, and I sit down beside her, feeling the weight of my own awkwardness.

She doesn’t wait. She picks up some food, offers it to me like she’s feeding a child, and without thinking, I open my mouth. The moment I take a bite, I watch her, watching me. She smiles, her eyes still a little too bright, but the look on her face softens when I don’t pull away.

“Come here,” she says again, this time with more insistence, her hand reaching for more food.

I hesitate, and she guides my hand, gently feeding me, her fingers lightly brushing my lips as I eat slowly.

She continues to eat, talking between bites, her words flowing fast and unstoppable. “I’m starving. I barely ate today.”

I find myself watching her, my gaze softening. She looks vulnerable, but there’s something wild in her eyes that keeps me on edge. She’s eating like it’s the first real meal she’s had in weeks.

She wipes her mouth, and she wipes mine too. The touch is brief but gentle, and I’m surprised by how natural it feels. She talks as she does it, rambling about everything and nothing at all, her voice lifting and falling with each sentence.

I realize I’m listening. Really listening.

She eats the last bit of food, and when she finishes, she leans back against the bed, rubbing her stomach. “That was so good.” Her eyes flutter closed for a moment, and she sighs with satisfaction. She stretches her arms, still lying back.

“I can’t move. These sheets are so soft,” she murmurs, almost to herself, her voice sleepy but not entirely relaxed.

“Stay here then,” I murmur, the words slipping out before I think too much about it. I stand and walk toward the closet, reaching for my shirt. The room is filled with the scent of food and her, and I feel a strange pull to just forget everything for a second.

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