Novels by Pauline Maxwell

The night clung to the Rossi villa like a second skin. Moonlight spilled over the cliffs, painting the sea in silver streaks, while lanterns glowed faintly in the gardens below. Yet the air felt heavier than beauty should allow, weighted with secrets.Adriana stood frozen at the balustrade, her gown catching the breeze, her chest rising and falling too quickly. Her eyes locked on the figure emerging from the shadows.Damian Moretti.Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. Every instinct screamed at her to call for her guards, to cry out Isabella’s name, to remind herself of who he was. Instead, her lips parted without sound, as if words had abandoned her.“You’re bold,” she whispered at last, though her voice trembled. “Walking into my family’s garden as though it belongs to you.”Damian’s smirk was faint, dangerous. He stepped closer, his shoes silent on the stone. “Maybe it does. Your father pretends otherwise, but you and I both know the city is already mine.”His voice was silk stret

The Rossi villa was never truly quiet. Even at night, the echo of footsteps, the hum of whispered deals, and the distant thrum of engines carried through its marble halls. Yet Adriana sat awake in her bed, staring at the ceiling, drowning in silence.Sleep had abandoned her. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face. Damian. The shadow in the corridor, the smirk that cut like a blade, the way he had looked at her—as if she were not Don Rossi’s daughter, not a pawn in a bloody game, but something more.She hated herself for it. She hated the way her pulse quickened at the memory of his voice. He was her enemy. Her father’s enemy. He was death wrapped in silk and steel. And still, she could not stop thinking of him.A knock rattled her door. She sat up quickly, clutching her robe around her shoulders.“Adriana?”It was Sofia. Her younger sister slipped in, her nightgown trailing behind her like a whisper. She perched on the edge of the bed, her wide eyes searching Adriana’s face.

The Rossi motorcade rolled into Naples under a veil of tension. Black cars lined the narrow streets, engines purring like predators, their tinted windows reflecting the old stone facades. Soldiers in tailored suits stepped out first, scanning alleys and rooftops with sharp eyes. Only then did Don Enzo Rossi emerge, his daughter and son close behind.Adriana smoothed the folds of her navy dress, her pulse quickening. Naples smelled of salt, gunpowder, and tension. The Moretti strike had left the city trembling, and now the Rossi allies gathered in a grand but decaying palazzo, its marble floors cracked and walls lined with faded frescoes of saints who had long since turned their backs on them.Inside, voices rose in anger. The air was thick with smoke and fear as men argued about vengeance. Adriana lingered at her father’s side, silent, her presence ornamental yet observed. Her father wanted her here, to display the Rossi line, to remind the others that his bloodline was strong. But no

The Rossi dining hall was built to impress. A long mahogany table stretched nearly the length of the room, polished to a mirror shine. Crystal chandeliers cast golden light over silver platters, bowls of fresh fruit, and steaming cups of espresso. To any outsider, it might have looked like the perfect family breakfast.Adriana knew better.Her father sat at the head of the table, reading through a leather-bound ledger while two of his lieutenants waited nearby. Marco, already loud with morning arrogance, tore into a plate of prosciutto and eggs while gesturing animatedly at Sofia, their younger sister. At eighteen, Sofia still carried the softness of youth, her laughter light and unscarred by mafia politics.Adriana sipped her coffee slowly, watching them all with the distance she always felt in this room.“Marco,” Don Enzo said without looking up from his ledger, “you’ll attend the meeting in Naples tomorrow. The Ferraris are restless, and I don’t trust their loyalties.”Marco grinne

The Rossi villa stood on the cliffs of Amalfi like a kingdom of its own. White stone walls gleamed under the morning sun, balconies overflowing with vines and bougainvillea that spilled scarlet flowers into the salt-heavy air. From the outside, it could have been mistaken for paradise. Inside, it was a fortress.Adriana Rossi leaned against the balcony railing of her bedroom, staring at the ocean below. The waves crashed violently against the rocks, their fury echoing the storm inside her chest.She hadn’t slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him—Damian Moretti, his hand steady on the knife, his gaze sharp enough to pin her in place. She should have been terrified. She should have gone to her father immediately, confessed what she had seen.But she hadn’t.She had carried the secret home with her, clutching it to her chest like contraband. And now, standing in the golden morning light, she hated herself for one dangerous truth: she couldn’t stop thinking about him.A knock r

The Moretti estate never slept. Even in the silence of midnight, when the chandeliers burned low and the marble corridors stretched endless as cathedrals, the house throbbed with shadows and secrets. Guards paced the hallways with guns tucked beneath their jackets. Doors that should have been locked stood ajar. Somewhere, always, someone was watching. Adriana Rossi hadn’t meant to wander. The party downstairs was loud with champagne laughter and the clink of glasses, her father’s allies toasting another profitable shipment that would slip past customs unnoticed. But the noise had pressed on her temples until she excused herself, slipping away from the crowd in search of quiet. Now she drifted through corridors gilded with gold leaf, where every portrait seemed to glare down at her with cold judgment. Her heels clicked softly against the marble, each sound echoing louder than she liked. She told herself she wasn’t lost—she never got lost—but she had stepped into a wing of the house u