The silence was worse than the storm.For forty-eight hours, Elias vanished.No sightings. No communications. No retaliations.The city’s criminal underbelly buzzed with paranoia. The sudden vacuum left by his absence felt unnatural—too quiet, too clean, like the pause before a predator pounced.Camilla didn’t trust it.From the second she opened her eyes that morning, something inside her coiled with unease. The day felt off. The air was too still. Even the guards at the Romano estate walked a little faster, checked corners more carefully.Riccardo noticed it too. He sat in the war room, flanked by Luca and Isadora, his posture rigid as intel streamed in from every contact.“Nothing,” Isadora muttered. “No chatter, no encrypted signals, no dead drops. It’s like he blinked out of existence.”“He didn’t,” Camilla said, pacing near the monitors. “He’s waiting. Watching. Planning something.”Riccardo’s gaze sharpened. “And we’re going to find out what.”By noon, the first sign arrived—wr
War had a rhythm.A pulse that beat beneath the city’s skin—throbbing louder each day as Riccardo and Camilla moved their pieces into place. Every phone call, every coded message, every silent nod across a room was another step toward a confrontation that couldn’t be avoided.But in war, it wasn’t just bullets that killed.It was trust.And trust, Camilla was learning, was far more dangerous.The Falcone estate turned into a hive of controlled chaos. Teams of mercenaries were rotated in every six hours, supplies stocked in hidden compartments, escape routes secured. Luca worked double shifts, barking orders as if preparing for a siege.In the war room, Camilla stood before a wall of digital projections—Elias’s known associates, money trails, warehouses, shipping containers flagged for inspection. A red string web of everything he touched.Riccardo entered quietly and moved beside her. “You’ve built a map of his empire.”“I’ve built a noose,” she corrected, her eyes never leaving the b
The cracked chess piece sat on Camilla’s desk like a taunt.She hadn’t moved it since last night. Every time she glanced at it, her stomach coiled. Not out of fear—but fury. Elias had found her weakness, or at least what he thought was weakness.Emotion.Memory.The past.She swept the queen into a drawer and locked it. The past would have to wait—because the present was on fire.Camilla descended into the security wing just as Luca stormed down the hallway, a file clenched in one hand.He spotted her and shook his head. “You’re not going to like this.”“That’s becoming a pattern,” Camilla muttered.He handed her the file. “We found something in Marcus’s personal effects. A burner phone. Wiped mostly clean—except for one outgoing number.”“Let me guess. Elias.”Luca’s jaw tightened. “No. Worse. It’s a number linked to the courthouse district. And we traced the name on the contact to someone unexpected.”He opened a photo.Camilla’s heart stuttered.“No…” she whispered.The picture sho
The Falcone estate was quieter than usual.Not silent—never that. But quieter. As if the walls were holding their breath. As if the house itself sensed the tension threading its halls like a live wire.Camilla felt it the moment she stepped out of her room. A hush in the corridors. Eyes that watched and then looked away too quickly. Something was brewing.And she needed to know what.She found Riccardo in the study, the door half-shut, voices leaking through like heat through a crack. She paused just long enough to hear two words—blood oath—before she pushed the door open and walked in.Riccardo was behind the desk, Marco and Isadora standing nearby. They didn’t flinch at her entrance.“Am I interrupting?” Camilla asked, eyes narrowing.Riccardo’s gaze met hers, calm and unreadable. “Not at all. You’re part of this now.”“Part of what?”Isadora stepped aside so Camilla could move closer. On the desk lay an old leather-bound book, its edges singed and worn. In the center was a symbol s
The rain fell hard against the cracked windshield of Camilla’s beat-up sedan as she pulled into the gravel driveway of her father’s estate. A single dim light flickered above the front door, barely illuminating the ivy-covered walls of the old mansion. It looked abandoned—too quiet, too still. Her heart pounded as she stepped out of the car, high heels crunching over loose gravel. She hadn’t been here in months. Not since the last screaming match with her father. He’d begged her to stay away, told her things were getting dangerous. She hadn’t listened. She never did. Now he wasn’t answering her calls, and his assistant had left her a voicemail in the middle of the night. Come home. Urgently. No details. Just panic in her voice. Camilla shoved open the heavy door. It wasn’t locked. “Dad?” she called out, stepping inside. Silence. The house was too cold, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones—not from weather, but from something wrong. Lights were off in the foyer,
The ink was still drying when Riccardo slid the contract back into the folder with the precision of a man sealing someone’s fate. Camilla stared at the paper, her pulse thudding in her ears. Her signature looked foreign beside her father’s. Like a final breath before drowning. “That’s it?” she whispered. “It’s done?” Riccardo nodded. “Congratulations, Mrs. Falcone.” The words hit her like a slap. She wasn’t married. Not really. Not in the way it was supposed to mean. This was a transaction. She had sold herself to the devil and signed it in ink instead of blood. And he wore satisfaction like a tailored suit. “You’ll move into my house by tonight,” he added. “You’ll find the terms of your… stay quite livable.” “Like a gilded prison,” she muttered. He smirked. “Only if you try to run.” She shot him a glare, but he’d already turned his back, reaching for his phone. “Car will be outside in twenty minutes. Pack light.” “I’m not a stray dog you picked up off the stre
Camilla sat in the back of the blacked-out SUV, her fingers clutched around the hem of the white silk dress Riccardo had laid out for her. Not a gown—nothing dramatic. Just simple, sleeveless, and elegant. The kind of white that dared you to stain it. The irony wasn’t lost on her. She looked down at her hands. No bouquet. No bridesmaids. Just trembling fingers that wouldn’t stop. Riccardo sat beside her, dressed in a black three-piece suit. Not a wrinkle on him. He looked like he was headed to a corporate board meeting, not his own wedding. His jaw was clean-shaven, his expression unreadable, and not once had he glanced her way. This wasn’t romance. It was a branding. “You could at least pretend you’re not dragging me into hell,” she muttered. He finally looked at her. “Hell? Camilla, I own hell. I’m just giving you a front-row seat.” She rolled her eyes, but it was a weak defense. Because beneath her sarcasm was fear—and he could see it. He always could. The churc
Camilla had never felt so alone. She stood in the middle of her new room, the ornate door locked behind her, staring at the phone Riccardo had left for her. The weight of it in her hand felt like an anchor, holding her in place. The screen taunted her: Riccardo as the only contact. She couldn’t trust him. Not now. Not after everything. But the message… “You’re free to leave. But if you do, you’ll be hunted.” Her fingers hovered over the screen, torn between curiosity and fear. What had her father gotten them into? What was the full extent of the debts he had owed to Riccardo—and to those far more dangerous than him? A knock at the door. Camilla’s heart leapt. She quickly shoved the phone into her bag and hurried to open it. Her mind raced through a dozen possibilities—maybe Riccardo had returned, maybe it was just another servant—but when she swung it open, she was met with the sight of the maid from earlier, holding a tray of food. “Dinner,” the maid said with a blank
The Falcone estate was quieter than usual.Not silent—never that. But quieter. As if the walls were holding their breath. As if the house itself sensed the tension threading its halls like a live wire.Camilla felt it the moment she stepped out of her room. A hush in the corridors. Eyes that watched and then looked away too quickly. Something was brewing.And she needed to know what.She found Riccardo in the study, the door half-shut, voices leaking through like heat through a crack. She paused just long enough to hear two words—blood oath—before she pushed the door open and walked in.Riccardo was behind the desk, Marco and Isadora standing nearby. They didn’t flinch at her entrance.“Am I interrupting?” Camilla asked, eyes narrowing.Riccardo’s gaze met hers, calm and unreadable. “Not at all. You’re part of this now.”“Part of what?”Isadora stepped aside so Camilla could move closer. On the desk lay an old leather-bound book, its edges singed and worn. In the center was a symbol s
The cracked chess piece sat on Camilla’s desk like a taunt.She hadn’t moved it since last night. Every time she glanced at it, her stomach coiled. Not out of fear—but fury. Elias had found her weakness, or at least what he thought was weakness.Emotion.Memory.The past.She swept the queen into a drawer and locked it. The past would have to wait—because the present was on fire.Camilla descended into the security wing just as Luca stormed down the hallway, a file clenched in one hand.He spotted her and shook his head. “You’re not going to like this.”“That’s becoming a pattern,” Camilla muttered.He handed her the file. “We found something in Marcus’s personal effects. A burner phone. Wiped mostly clean—except for one outgoing number.”“Let me guess. Elias.”Luca’s jaw tightened. “No. Worse. It’s a number linked to the courthouse district. And we traced the name on the contact to someone unexpected.”He opened a photo.Camilla’s heart stuttered.“No…” she whispered.The picture sho
War had a rhythm.A pulse that beat beneath the city’s skin—throbbing louder each day as Riccardo and Camilla moved their pieces into place. Every phone call, every coded message, every silent nod across a room was another step toward a confrontation that couldn’t be avoided.But in war, it wasn’t just bullets that killed.It was trust.And trust, Camilla was learning, was far more dangerous.The Falcone estate turned into a hive of controlled chaos. Teams of mercenaries were rotated in every six hours, supplies stocked in hidden compartments, escape routes secured. Luca worked double shifts, barking orders as if preparing for a siege.In the war room, Camilla stood before a wall of digital projections—Elias’s known associates, money trails, warehouses, shipping containers flagged for inspection. A red string web of everything he touched.Riccardo entered quietly and moved beside her. “You’ve built a map of his empire.”“I’ve built a noose,” she corrected, her eyes never leaving the b
The silence was worse than the storm.For forty-eight hours, Elias vanished.No sightings. No communications. No retaliations.The city’s criminal underbelly buzzed with paranoia. The sudden vacuum left by his absence felt unnatural—too quiet, too clean, like the pause before a predator pounced.Camilla didn’t trust it.From the second she opened her eyes that morning, something inside her coiled with unease. The day felt off. The air was too still. Even the guards at the Romano estate walked a little faster, checked corners more carefully.Riccardo noticed it too. He sat in the war room, flanked by Luca and Isadora, his posture rigid as intel streamed in from every contact.“Nothing,” Isadora muttered. “No chatter, no encrypted signals, no dead drops. It’s like he blinked out of existence.”“He didn’t,” Camilla said, pacing near the monitors. “He’s waiting. Watching. Planning something.”Riccardo’s gaze sharpened. “And we’re going to find out what.”By noon, the first sign arrived—wr
Elias had made his move.Now it was time for Camilla to make hers.The morning after the estate breach, the Romano compound was under lockdown. Extra guards patrolled the grounds, surveillance drones hovered above, and the war room operated on a 24-hour cycle.But the real weapon wasn’t steel or bullets.It was information.Camilla stood before the estate’s digital command screen, the flickering lights of newsfeeds and social channels reflecting in her eyes.“We’ve compiled every traceable link to Elias,” Isadora said, handing her a dossier. “Old aliases. Known associates. Shell companies. He’s been careful—but not perfect.”Camilla flipped through the photos and documents. One picture stood out—a surveillance still of Elias exiting a black car in Venice three years ago. His face was mostly obscured, but the distinctive burn scar across his jaw gave him away.“Is this enough?” Camilla asked.Isadora’s smile was razor-sharp. “With the right spin? It’s more than enough.”Riccardo watche
The storm came not with thunder, but with a phone call.Camilla was in the west wing library, going over estate ledgers when Luca burst in—face pale, shirt blood-splattered.“It’s Elias,” he said. “He made his move.”Camilla stood instantly, the ledger forgotten. “What did he do?”Luca’s jaw flexed. “Carlo. One of our shipping lieutenants. Found dead in the docks. Shot twice. Execution style. And there was a message.”Her stomach twisted. “What message?”He handed her a folded piece of paper. She opened it with trembling fingers.“For every door you close, I’ll burn down two.”The handwriting was unmistakable.Elias wasn’t bluffing anymore.He was declaring war.The war room was chaos. Phones buzzed, men shouted, and digital maps of the city lit up with pulsing alerts. Camilla entered with Luca, her calm demeanor belying the storm inside her.Riccardo was already there, standing like a general in the heart of a battlefield.“What’s the fallout?” she asked, bypassing the pleasantries.
The rain came in slow sheets, pattering against the tall glass windows of the estate like whispers of a warning. It was just past midnight when Camilla received the message.A burner number. One line.Meet me. Or the truth burns.She didn’t need to guess who sent it.Camilla stood at the edge of the conservatory, staring into the dark expanse of the estate’s gardens. Somewhere beyond the hedges, danger lurked. Not in the form of bullets or blades—but in the shape of a man who knew too much.Elias Black.He was back with leverage. And she knew exactly what secret he wanted to wield.Not hers.Riccardo’s.And that made everything more complicated.She left a message for Isadora to monitor the estate’s perimeter but not to interfere. Then she slipped out through the side entrance, dressed in black, her hair coiled into a bun, no heels this time—only soft soles and silence.The meeting place was a quiet chapel ruins on the outskirts of the Romano territory. The kind of place Elias would
The moment Alessandro Morretti left the estate, Riccardo knew.Not because anyone told him. Not because Luca reported it. But because the atmosphere had shifted—thickened with a tension he could feel in his bones.He found Camilla standing alone in the east wing gallery, staring at the abstract portrait that had once belonged to his father. The wine in her hand was untouched.“You spoke to him,” Riccardo said quietly.Camilla didn’t turn around. “I had to.”He stepped closer, slow and deliberate. “He’s not a guest. He’s a threat.”“I know what he is.”“Do you?” His voice was sharp now. “Because a woman playing queen doesn’t walk into a den of vipers without telling her king.”Camilla turned then, eyes steady. “You don’t own every move I make.”“You’re my wife.”“And I’m not your pawn.”They stared each other down—two firestorms contained in silk and steel.Camilla finally spoke, voice low. “He gave me a card. Said I’d need it when I realized the devil’s palace wasn’t what it seemed.”
Riccardo knew when Camilla was hiding something.She didn’t flinch. Didn’t stammer. Didn’t give herself away in any obvious way.But her silence stretched longer. Her gaze was too precise. And she held her wine glass like a weapon instead of a comfort.By morning, he’d already dispatched two of his men to scan every CCTV feed from Pier 41, every phone signal in the area, every dock worker who hadn’t clocked in.She hadn’t told him where she’d gone last night—but he knew.She’d gone to face something that wasn’t meant to be faced alone.And that? That infuriated him.Still, when she entered the dining hall, dressed in ivory silk like nothing had happened, he said nothing. Just watched.Camilla met his gaze calmly.“We need to talk,” she said.“I’m listening.”She sat across from him, every movement deliberate.“I need more control.”His brow lifted. “You already have more control than anyone has ever dared ask me for.”“I need access, Riccardo. Not just a seat at your table. I want ful