He left the door shut behind him and the sound of the world changed. The mansion felt smaller, tighter. Servants moved like ghosts. Guards waited like statues. I stood in the courtyard with Luca and watched the headlights cut through the night.
"You said you had a lead?" I asked.
Luca tapped his phone. "We traced the truck. It was stopped near the old mill outside town. The men who took it moved fast. They split up after the attack."
"Did anyone see them?" I pushed. "Faces? Plates?"
"No faces. Bad masks. But one of the drivers had a scar on his neck. He ran into the woods. We found footprints—big, heavy. Not local." Luca's jaw set. "They knew the route, sir. They knew the time."
"They knew my schedule." The words felt like poison. Someone inside had given them that time.
Luca met my eyes. "You want us to hit them now? We could surround the mill and move in—fast."
"No." I shook my head. "We can't rush. If they're tied to inside men, a bad move could give away our hand." I breathed in slow to steady the anger. "We wait. Gather more. Find ties. If they come back to town, we hit them hard and in public. We make an example. For now, lock down. No one leaves this house without me knowing. No exceptions."
Luca nodded. He liked orders he could obey.
Back inside, the house was a map of shadows and whispers. I moved through it like a shark through water—quiet, cold, ready. I stopped by my office door and didn't go in right away. I listened for the noises that meant life and the ones that meant danger: the soft footstep of a maid, the click of a cigarette stub, the distant murmur of men in the back rooms.
Isabella stood in the hall when I passed, hands folded, waiting.
"You stayed," I said.
"I stayed," she replied. "You looked like you needed me."
I let a small smile touch my lips for her, the smile I rarely gave. "Thank you."
She followed me inside. The office smelled of old wood and paper and something of my father's cologne that still hung like a ghost. I sat behind his desk and watched my hands rest on the grain. The weight of the house sat on them.
"You're quiet," she said, taking the chair opposite. "Are you thinking about the truck?"
"Always," I said. "Money moves mean plans. Plans mean enemies. Enemies mean betrayal."
She reached out, but I pulled my hands away first. Not because I wanted to be cruel—because I didn't want her to be in this room if someone watched. "Stay out of the back rooms tonight. I don't want you walking into danger."
Her jaw tightened. "Or what? You'll lock me away?"
"You will be safe." My voice was soft but iron-strong. "That is an order."
She looked at me for a long beat, then nodded. "Okay. I will do as you say."
Inside, a man lived to follow orders. Outside, a woman should feel trapped. The lines had blurred. I watched her and my chest hurt because I loved her and because I needed her not to lie.
She stood, walked to the window, and watched the garden where the moon softened the dead roses.
"Do you ever regret it?" she asked suddenly.
"Regret what?"
"Taking the family name. Being tied to all this." Her hands found each other, fingers twisting. "Do you ever want to walk away, Adrian? To vanish? To be free of blood and lists and silence?"
I thought of my father, of the man who had taught me to hold a door closed with a body on the other side if needed. I thought of the faces in the vault, the ledgers, the men who bent knee.
"No," I said. "I don't have that choice. This is my blood. This is my home. I will protect it."
She lowered her head. "I understand." The words sounded small. She did not understand. Not yet.
When she left the room for the sitting room, I stayed and opened my father's drawer. The ring. The old photographs. The ledger with a missing page. I shut it quickly when I heard her laugh in the other room—too bright, too clean.
Later, while I walked the upper floors to check doors and men, she slipped away. I didn't see her leave. I trusted her to sit, to wait. That same trusting burned in me like an ember.
She moved through the house in a different way than I did—soft steps, careful hands. She found a quiet corner in the guest wing. Her phone lit her face. She typed, wiped her thumb, typed more.
He's ready to play the game.
She hit send. Her thumb trembled and the screen went dark. The message left her like a stone through glass. Outside, people might have seen nothing. Inside, a plan shifted.
She breathed and told herself it was to protect herself, to make sure no one forced her hand. She told herself the men she served would keep their word. She told herself she would not let Adrian get hurt. The lie comforted her.
Back in my office, with doors locked and guards doubled, I finally let myself fall into the chair. The house hummed around me. The clock ticked loud enough to be an accusation. I wanted to tear something apart—papers, men, the walls that held secrets. But rage was a tool. It needed temper, not a blind strike.
My phone buzzed on the desk. I almost ignored it. I didn't. The light on the screen pulsed with a number I didn't recognize. Unknown. No name. No face.
I answered without thinking, thumb heavy against the screen. "Who is this?"
A voice came, calm and smooth like oil. "Play carefully." It sounded like only the night and a cigarette would sound. "He trusts you. You must show him he is wrong to trust so freely."
My knuckles tightened around the phone. "Who is this?"
Silence. Then, a whisper. "We are closer than you think. Inside your walls. Inside your heart. Be careful, Moretti."
The line went dead. The screen went black.
I stood up so fast the chair scraped. My chest felt hollow and full at the same time. Someone taunted me. Someone spoke in my voice and then hid. Someone inside wanted to cut my hands.
I moved like a blade through the house, light on my feet, leaving orders with men who I trusted and men who I observed with fresh eyes. "Double-check every lock. No one leaves. Check the wine cellar and guest rooms. Bring anyone who looks nervous."
"Yes, sir." The second lieutenant's voice was steady, but I saw a shake in his hand.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to pound my fist into the desk until the wood split. Instead, I focused on the cold work. I made lists. I had men run through CCTV recordings. I watched the same footage rewind and play until my eyes smarted and the faces blurred.
When I returned to the lounge, she sat where I left her, hands folded properly, eyes on me. Her face was calm. Too calm.
"You received a message?" she asked, casual as a woman asking about the weather.
"Unknown number," I answered flatly. "A warning."
Her face didn't change. She didn't flinch. She should have. Anyone would. But she didn't.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
"Fine." I lied.
She smiled faintly, and in that small smile I saw nerves covered with silk. She had sent her own message, I realized, and I had no proof. Only the squeak of the house, the whisper of men moving in the walls.
I sat back down and watched her. "Stay in the lounge tonight. No wandering."
"Okay," she said, like it was a small favor.
When the night pulled steady and the house closed like a fist, I walked past the window and looked at the roses, white and pure in daylight, red with rain and time. I thought of trust as a fragile thing, thin as glass. I thought of blood as a promise that never breaks.
We both sat in the quiet, separated by a room and a secret. I kept my watch, lists in my head, men in motion. She kept her watch, a little note in her pocket and a message out in the dark.
The phone buzzed again. A single line slid onto the screen from the same unknown number: He trusts you. Play carefully. Your move comes next.
I read it twice. The letters were small and precise, and they hit like a punch. Whoever sent it had knowledge—and arrogance. They knew how I loved. They knew how I would move.
My hand tightened until the skin went white.
Across the room, she watched me read it. Her face stayed neutral, but something like a shadow flickered through her eyes. Guilt? Fear? Relief? I couldn't tell.
The game had begun in earnest. The next move would not be soft. The stakes had zeroed in on the heart of the house: me, the family, and the woman at my side.
I stood and walked to the window, watching the road that led away from the grounds. The night was quiet, but the silence was full of promise and threat. I turned back to her, and she was waiting like always—faithful, distant, safe.
"Sleep," I said finally. "Tomorrow we make the first real move."
She nodded and lay down on the couch, folding her hands beneath her head. Her eyes closed, and the house breathed in and out around us.
I stayed awake until the first thin light of dawn, the phone resting on the desk like a sleeping animal. Every noise made me turn. Every creak a signal. Every whisper a proof I was being watched.
When I finally allowed myself to close my eyes for a short, jagged hour, I dreamed of knives and roses and a man whose face I could not quite see. I woke on a sound—soft, distant—a car turning scent into motion.
Someone was moving. The game had answered.