Chapter 1: Blood on Marble

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 unfamiliar even to her.

She paused at a set of double doors, one of them cracked open just wide enough to reveal a sliver of light.

Curiosity was her worst flaw. At least, that’s what her father always told her.

Adriana eased closer, holding her breath, and peered through the gap.

Inside, under the harsh blaze of a chandelier, three men stood like players on a stage. Two were dressed in suits, their expressions flat, their hands clasped behind their backs. Between them knelt a third man, hands bound, face bruised, his shirt clinging with sweat.

And standing over him was Damian Moretti.

Adriana’s breath caught.

She had heard his name since childhood, whispered like a curse. Damian—the wolf heir of the Moretti clan. Son of Lorenzo Moretti, Don of the rival empire that had spilled Rossi blood for generations. A man said to have ice in his veinBlood on Marble

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 unfamiliar even to her.

She paused at a set of double doors, one of them cracked open just wide enough to reveal a sliver of light.

Curiosity was her worst flaw. At least, that’s what her father always told her.

Adriana eased closer, holding her breath, and peered through the gap.

Inside, under the harsh blaze of a chandelier, three men stood like players on a stage. Two were dressed in suits, their expressions flat, their hands clasped behind their backs. Between them knelt a third man, hands bound, face bruised, his shirt clinging with sweat.

And standing over him was Damian Moretti.

Adriana’s breath caught.

She had heard his name since childhood, whispered like a curse. Ds and death in his hands.

He was younger than she expected, though the rumors had always painted him as ageless, more myth than man. His black hair was slicked back, his jaw set like stone, his eyes shadowed but sharp enough to cut. In his grip, a knife gleamed silver against the chandelier’s light.

The kneeling man begged in rapid Italian, his voice hoarse, pleading for mercy.

Damian didn’t flinch. He crouched, tilting the man’s chin up with the knife’s tip, and spoke so low Adriana strained to hear.

“Loyalty,” he said, almost gently. “That’s all I ask. And you broke it.”

The man wept harder, shaking his head, swearing on his mother’s grave. Damian listened in silence. Then, with a slow shake of his own head, he pressed the blade to the man’s throat.

Adriana clutched the edge of the door, her nails biting into wood.

Don’t watch, she told herself. Leave now, before he sees you.

But she couldn’t. Something about the stillness of him, the utter control in his movements, rooted her to the spot.

The knife slid, quick and clean. A scarlet line blossomed across pale skin. The man’s body shuddered, then crumpled forward onto the marble floor. Blood spread in a dark pool, catching in the veins of the stone until it gleamed like shattered rubies.

One of the suited men stepped forward with a cloth, offering it. Damian wiped the blade with slow precision, his face unreadable, then straightened.

That was when he looked up.

And saw her.

His eyes were black as storm clouds, unreadable yet searing. For a moment, Adriana thought he might pretend she wasn’t there, turn back to his men, let her slip away with her secret.

He didn’t.

Damian Moretti’s gaze fixed on hers with the sharpness of a blade finding its mark. He stilled, every movement deliberate, as if savoring the discovery. Slowly, he handed the bloodied knife to one of his men and dismissed them with a flick of his hand. They obeyed without question, dragging the body across the marble, leaving a dark smear in their wake. The heavy door shut behind them with a thud.

Now there was only him. And her.

Adriana’s heart pounded so hard she thought it might crack her ribs. She could still leave—run back to the party, pretend she had never wandered into this forbidden wing. But her feet betrayed her, frozen in place as Damian stepped closer, his shoes silent against the marble despite the weight of his presence.

He stopped only a few feet away.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice low, deep, carrying the quiet menace of a gun cocking.

Adriana’s fingers dug harder into the doorframe, but she forced herself not to look away. If she did, she would crumble. “Neither should you,” she replied, her tone steadier than she felt.

Something flickered across his face—amusement, perhaps, or curiosity. Dangerous, either way.

“Do you know who I am?” His voice was almost conversational, but his eyes didn’t soften.

“Yes,” Adriana said. She didn’t whisper, didn’t bow. “Damian Moretti.”

His lips curved, not into a smile but something darker, the ghost of one. “Then you know what I could do to you for spying.”

“I wasn’t spying,” she shot back, heat rising in her chest. “I was lost.”

“Lost,” he repeated, tasting the word. His gaze swept over her—the silk gown, the Rossi emeralds at her throat, the defiant lift of her chin. “A Rossi princess wandering into a Moretti execution. That doesn’t sound lost to me. That sounds… reckless.”

Her throat tightened. He was toying with her, a wolf circling a lamb. Yet something in his tone didn’t feel like a threat alone. It felt like a test.

She lifted her chin higher. “Maybe I am reckless.”

For the first time, the corner of his mouth curved into a smirk. “Then we have something in common.”

The air between them thickened, heavy with unspoken things—violence, attraction, danger. Adriana felt it settle into her bones, a heat she couldn’t name.

Behind him, the smear of blood glistened against the marble, a reminder of what he was capable of. She should have turned, run, screamed for her father’s guards. Instead, she stood her ground, held his gaze, and let the silence stretch.

Finally, Damian stepped back. He retrieved his knife from the table where his man had placed it, sliding it into the sheath beneath his jacket. “You’ll tell no one what you saw.”

It wasn’t a question.

Adriana swallowed. “And if I do?”

His eyes narrowed, though not in anger. More like intrigue. “Then I’d have to decide what’s worth more—your silence or your blood.”

The words should have chilled her. Instead, they burned.

Damian moved past her, close enough that the scent of smoke and leather lingered in his wake. He paused at the door, glancing back only once.

“Go back to your father, Adriana Rossi. And pray you don’t wander into my path again.”

The door shut behind him with a finality that left her trembling.

But as Adriana pressed her back against the wall, trying to steady her breathing, she knew one thing with absolute certainty.

She would wander into his path again.

And when she did, she wasn’t sure whether it would destroy her… or set her free.