Adrian POV
The message burns in my mind long after the screen goes dark.
Your father's killer is one of your own.
I stare at the words until they blur into the shadows around me. My office feels colder tonight—the kind of cold that seeps beneath the skin and settles inside your bones. The fireplace crackles, but it doesn't help. Nothing does.
Luca stands near the window, his expression hard. "Who sent it?"
"I don't know." My voice is low, steady, but my hand tightens around the glass of whiskey. "No name, no trace. Just those words."
He frowns. "Could be bait. Someone wants you paranoid."
"They've succeeded," I mutter. "Because now I can't trust anyone."
Silence stretches. The kind that speaks louder than words.
Tomorrow, I have to face the council again—the heads of what remains of my father's empire. Men twice my age, waiting for me to slip, to falter, to prove I'm not ready to lead. I'll prove them wrong. But first, I need to know who sent that message… and who among us is hiding blood on their hands.
Luca breaks the silence. "Marco will be there tomorrow. You know he won't like what you're planning."
I look up sharply. "He doesn't have to like it. He just has to obey."
---
Morning comes gray and cold. The Moretti headquarters looms ahead—an old mansion turned fortress, filled with the ghosts of men who built it through violence and fear. As I enter, the entire hall goes silent. Eyes follow me. Whispers die mid-sentence.
I take the head seat at the long mahogany table. My father's chair. My chair now.
"Gentlemen," I begin, voice cutting through the tension, "the Moretti name doesn't bend. Not to outsiders, not to betrayal. Whoever killed my father will be found, and when I find him, he will wish for death long before I grant it."
No one speaks. Even the air feels cautious.
Marco clears his throat, leaning forward. "That's a strong declaration, nephew. But are you ready for what it means?"
I meet his gaze. "I've been ready since the night my father died."
He smiles faintly—too faintly. "Sometimes, Adrian, the enemy you hunt is sitting closer than you think."
The words are sharp, deliberate. His eyes flicker—toward Isabella.
A muscle in my jaw tightens. "What are you trying to say?"
Marco shrugs, casual, but his smirk lingers. "Only that trust is a dangerous thing in this world. Especially with outsiders."
Isabella sits beside me, her posture perfect, expression calm. Too calm. I feel her hand brush mine beneath the table—a silent reminder that she's here, that she's loyal. Or at least, that's what I want to believe.
I look back at Marco, my tone colder now. "Be careful, Uncle. There's a difference between advice and accusation."
He chuckles, the sound dry as dust. "Of course. Just… stay vigilant. You never know when the knife comes from the ones you love most."
The meeting drags on—numbers, reports, territories—but the tension never fades. Every word feels like a test. Every glance, a question.
When it's finally over, I stand. "This family has survived worse. We'll survive this. But from this moment on, trust is earned, not given."
Luca nods at my side. Marco's smirk doesn't fade. And Isabella's silence… feels heavier than the rest.
As we leave the room, I catch her wrist gently. "Ignore him," I say, forcing my voice soft. "He just wants to divide us."
She looks up, eyes shining. "I know, Adrian."
But something in her tone doesn't sound certain—and something inside me begins to wonder what else she knows.
The night bleeds slowly into the city.
Rain falls over the villa in a soft, steady rhythm—enough to muffle footsteps, enough to hide lies.
I stand by the window, watching droplets slide down the glass. Inside the reflection, I see her. Isabella. She's pacing near the door, arms wrapped around herself, as if the cold outside somehow found its way in.
"Are you all right?" I ask.
She startles slightly before turning to me. "Just… tired. It's been a long day."
I nod but don't look away. I've learned something from my father's years of rule—people lie most convincingly when they look afraid.
And tonight, she looks perfectly afraid.
---
Luca enters quietly. His face is drawn tight, his voice low. "We swept the perimeter. Nothing unusual. But… someone left through the east gate an hour ago."
My attention sharpens. "Who?"
He hesitates. "We're checking cameras. But the logs show Isabella's access card."
My chest tightens. "No. She's been here all—"
I stop. My mind rewinds. The brief moment I left the room. The sound of the front door creaking. The faint smell of rain on her hair when she came back in.
"Delete nothing," I say quietly. "Bring me the footage."
Luca nods once and disappears.
---
Minutes crawl by. I can hear Isabella moving around upstairs, the soft click of her heels against marble, the whisper of fabric as she changes clothes. Each sound feels louder than it should—like guilt disguised as routine.
The footage arrives on Luca's tablet. He hands it to me wordlessly.
I press play.
There she is—hood up, coat on, moving through the courtyard with careful steps. She stops near the old warehouse, looking around before someone steps out of the shadows. A man.
I can't see his face clearly, but I recognize the posture, the confidence. Someone trained, someone who belongs to a different world.
They speak briefly. She hands him something small. Then she steps back, head low, and walks away.
My throat tightens. "When was this?"
"Forty-five minutes ago," Luca says quietly.
I shut the tablet and slide it across the desk. "Don't tell anyone. Not yet."
---
I find her in the corridor, brushing her hair in front of the mirror. She looks perfect—every line of her face soft, every gesture delicate.
"Couldn't sleep?" she asks.
"No," I reply simply. "Could you?"
Her smile is faint, cautious. "Trying to."
I take a step closer. "Where did you go tonight?"
Her hand stills mid-motion. "What?"
"You heard me," I say, voice calm but heavy. "The east gate. The warehouse. You left the house."
She turns slowly. "Adrian, I—went for air. That's all. You were angry after the meeting, I didn't want to bother you."
"Air," I repeat. "In the middle of a storm."
Her breath quickens. "You don't trust me?"
I study her face—the way her lips tremble just enough, the glimmer of tears she's trying to hold back. Anyone else would believe her. Hell, I want to believe her.
But the image of her in the rain, speaking to that man, plays again and again behind my eyes.
I reach out, my hand brushing her cheek, then sliding down to her neck. My fingers rest against the chain of the necklace I gave her—the one that once belonged to my mother.
"This necklace," I say softly, "you still wear it."
"Of course," she whispers. "It means something to me."
My thumb traces the pendant. It feels heavier tonight, colder. I press gently—and something clicks.
A faint metallic sound.
Her eyes widen.
I look closer. Inside the pendant, hidden beneath the tiny silver frame, is a small device—no bigger than a coin.
A tracker.
The silence between us stretches until it feels suffocating. Rain taps against the windows. My pulse pounds in my ears.
"Who gave you this?" I ask quietly.
She shakes her head quickly. "I—I don't know—Adrian, I swear, I didn't—"
"Don't," I cut in, voice low but dangerous. "Don't lie to me."
She steps back, tears glistening now, but I can't tell if they're real or rehearsed.
"You think I'd betray you?" she whispers.
"I think," I say slowly, "someone already has. And right now, I don't know who to trust."
The pendant dangles from my hand as I step past her, heading for the door. My chest feels heavy—part rage, part heartbreak, part disbelief.
Behind me, she calls my name. I don't stop.
Because in that moment, everything I've built—every ounce of loyalty, every line between love and danger—starts to fracture.
And for the first time since my father's death, I realize something terrifying.
The war outside my walls is nothing compared to the one that's already begun inside them.