Crimson Veins

Raindrops tapped the tinted windows like they were trying to whisper warnings she couldn’t understand. Luna sat stiff in the back seat of the black SUV, the cold leather sticking to her bare arms. She clutched the backpack on her lap like it was the last piece of her old life she could still hold onto. Maybe it was. Two weeks ago, she was just another girl with a name that didn’t mean anything. Two weeks ago, she had a mother who worked double shifts at a bakery, a small apartment that always smelled like cinnamon, and a best friend who laughed too loud. Two weeks ago, she was someone else. Now she was the daughter of Victor D’Aragon. Oil magnate. Mafia king. Stranger. Her adoption papers hadn’t been a shock—her mother had cried before Luna could even ask why—but the letter from Victor had been something else entirely. Neat, cold handwriting that read more like a demand than a reunion: You belong with your blood. So here she was. Driving through gates taller than any house she’d ever seen. Past guards with guns. Into a compound that looked like a fortress carved from stone and shadow. (...) "The truth doesn’t always survive. But the story? That’s mine now.”