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Blood built the Romano empire.
Not luck. Not mercy.
Generations of violence and cunning deals had laid its foundation, each brick soaked in silence and shadow. The Romano name was not whispered—it was feared. It moved like smoke through power halls, subtle and suffocating, wrapping around throats and futures alike.
And at the center of it all sat Alessio Romano.
Alone.
At the head of a long, polished marble table—black as night, cold as death—he sat with his fingers laced, watching the candlelight flicker like dying stars. Shadows clung to the walls around him, drawn to the man who had long forgotten what light felt like.
His tailored suit was perfect. Every inch stitched with the authority of old money and older blood. But even perfection couldn't mask the fresh bruises on his knuckles—subtle, but telling. Fists had flown tonight. They often did. Power had to be enforced, and Alessio never delegated pain.
He was the executioner as much as he was the king.
Because power had a price.
And Alessio had paid it in full.
He'd sacrificed everything soft—warmth, desire, the touch of another soul. He hadn't flinched when it slipped away, hadn't mourned when it died inside him. The right to choose who shared his bed? Gone. Traded for obedience. Traded for legacy.
Love?
Love was a currency fools wasted. And fools didn't survive in his world. Here, loyalty bought safety. Fear built empires. And emotions? Emotions got you killed.
So when his family demanded he take a mate to secure an ancient alliance, he didn't argue. Didn't scream, didn't threaten. He only gave a sharp nod and a list of conditions.
No lovers.
No partners.
No equals.
He needed something pliant. Something untainted. Someone he could own, not adore.
"Find me someone untouched," he'd said. "Silent. Easy to mold."
And so they did.
They brought him a boy.
Seventeen. Fragile. Shivering beneath silk too thin to hide the bruises. Auctioned like cattle beneath chandeliers that gleamed with false purity. Hidden in a world where innocence was currency, and predators paid in diamonds and blood.
The auction was quiet. Polished. Perverse in its elegance.
Alessio had watched from the darkened upper floor, flanked by men who said nothing, breathed nothing. Below, boys were lined like lambs, each one trembling with terror or drugged compliance.
They begged. Cried. Some passed out mid-bid.
But one didn't.
One boy stood out—not because of beauty, though he had it. Pale skin, dark lashes, lips too soft for this hell. But it was his silence.
His defiance.
He didn't flinch.
Didn't plead.
Didn't lower his gaze.
Noah.
A name murmured like a secret when the auctioneer presented him. A rare find, they said. Untouched. Pristine. But broken just enough to obey.
Alessio knew better.
He could see the fight still clinging to the boy's spine. Could see it in the way Noah stood straight despite the bruises on his wrists, despite the dried blood at the corner of his mouth. His eyes were soft, but behind them—steel. Unbent. Unyielding.
Everyone in that room wanted to break him.
Alessio wanted to own him.
He felt it then. Sharp and sudden. Not compassion—he'd long lost that word. Not even lust. Lust was fleeting. Predictable.
No, what curled in his gut was darker.
Hunger.
A kind of hunger that turned into obsession if left unchecked. One he never let near his heart. But something in Noah's silence—something in his refusal to cower—unleashed it.
Without a word, Alessio lifted a hand.
The bidding stopped. The room stilled. And within seconds, the contract was signed. Names etched in ink. Fates sealed in silence.
Noah was his.
He took him home—not to a house, but to a fortress of marble and gold. A place where silence screamed, and luxury was just another form of control.
He dressed the boy in silk and draped him in jewels, but every gift came with rules. Every kindness hid a chain.
There were no vows. No flowers. No romance. Just ink-stained contracts and the cold bite of steel against delicate wrists.
He didn't kiss him. Didn't speak soft words in the dark.
He simply took him.
Wrapped him in a world that glittered—and imprisoned.
He didn't love him.
He didn't even try.
He owned him.
Or so he thought.
But ownership, Alessio would soon learn, is not the same as control. And boys with fire in their eyes, no matter how bruised, don't burn quietly forever.
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