Chapter 3: Family Rivalries

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 grinned. “Don’t worry, Father. I’ll remind them where their bread is buttered. The Ferraris wouldn’t dare defy the Rossis.”

Adriana set her cup down a little too sharply. “Or maybe they’re restless because you treat them like dogs.”

Marco turned to her with a mocking smile. “And what would you suggest, sorellina? Bake them a cake? Sing them a lullaby?”

“Respect costs less than bullets,” Adriana said coolly.

Her father finally looked up, his dark eyes cutting between them. “Enough. Marco speaks with my authority. If the Ferraris have forgotten who keeps their coffers full, a reminder will be given.”

Adriana bit back her words, though her jaw tightened. A reminder, in her father’s language, meant blood.

Sofia, sensing the tension, changed the subject with nervous brightness. “Did you hear about the masquerade next month in Venice? The Valentis are hosting. Everyone says it will be the event of the season.”

Her father waved a dismissive hand. “Frivolities. The Valentis think masks will hide their weakness. We’ll see how much longer they last.”

The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of politics settling once again.

Then Marco leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Speaking of weakness, I hear Damian Moretti made quite the spectacle last night. A certain neutral family won’t be forgetting his methods anytime soon.”

Adriana’s heart jolted at the sound of his name. She kept her face carefully blank, but inside she could still see the blood on the marble, still feel the gravity of his eyes locking with hers.

Her father grunted. “The Morettis grow bold. Too bold. Damian plays at being a wolf, but he is still only a son. His father holds the leash.”

Marco chuckled. “From what I’ve heard, the leash is slipping. Damian’s carving his own legend, and men are listening.”

Adriana’s fork paused halfway to her lips. A dangerous heat curled in her stomach at Marco’s words. Damian carving his own legend. Damian untethered.

She forced herself to eat, to act unbothered, even as her pulse raced.

The clink of heels on marble drew all eyes to the doorway. Isabella DeLuca entered as though she owned the room, draped in cream silk that shimmered with each step.

“Good morning, Don Enzo,” she purred, kissing his ring with exaggerated grace. “I hope I’m not intruding. My father insisted I deliver our regards in person.”

“Ah, Isabella,” Don Enzo said warmly, rising to greet her. “You are always welcome in this house.”

Of course she was. The DeLucas were valuable allies, and Isabella had perfected the art of ingratiation. She slid gracefully into a seat beside Marco, flashing Adriana a smile that was all teeth.

“You look tired, Adriana,” Isabella said sweetly. “Late night?”

Adriana met her gaze evenly. “Perhaps I was dreaming of something worth staying awake for.”

Marco barked a laugh. “Careful, Adriana. Isabella will think you’re envious of her beauty.”

Isabella tilted her head, eyes gleaming. “Oh, I would never assume such a thing. Adriana knows her place.”

The jab landed sharp. Adriana’s fingers tightened on her fork, but she refused to rise to the bait. Isabella thrived on reaction, and she would not give her the satisfaction.

Instead, she smiled thinly. “Yes. And one day, Isabella, I hope you’ll learn yours.”

For a heartbeat, the two women locked eyes—steel against silk. Marco chuckled again, oblivious to the venom beneath their words, while Sofia shifted uncomfortably, her gaze darting between them.

Don Enzo cleared his throat. “Enough of this childish sparring. Isabella, give your father my thanks for his loyalty. In times like these, I value it greatly.”

Isabella’s eyes flicked toward Adriana, her smile curling. “Loyalty is everything, Don Enzo. Without it, families crumble.”

Adriana felt the barb pierce. Did Isabella know something? Or was she only circling, sniffing for weakness?

After breakfast, Adriana found herself cornered in the corridor by Marco. His expression was no longer playful.

“You need to watch yourself,” he said lowly. “Father tolerates your sharp tongue because you’re his daughter, but others won’t. Isabella’s useful, whether you like her or not. Don’t make enemies we can’t afford.”

Adriana folded her arms. “And what about the enemies we already have? Or do you think Moretti knives will stop at our allies’ throats?”

Marco’s jaw tightened. “Leave the Morettis to Father and me. You focus on being the good little princess. The less you meddle, the better.”

Her blood boiled, but she kept her voice icy. “One day, Marco, you’ll learn that a princess can be more dangerous than a prince.”

He scoffed and stalked away, muttering under his breath.

Adriana leaned against the wall, her heart hammering. Damian’s name hung between every word, unspoken yet heavy. If her brother or Isabella ever suspected what she had seen—what she had felt—she would be finished.

By evening, news spread like wildfire through the Rossi estate. A messenger arrived, bloodied and trembling, carrying a warning from the Moretti clan. One of the Rossi allies in Naples had been found executed, their bodies left in the street with a wolf’s head carved into the door.

Don Enzo’s rage shook the hall. “This is no longer posturing,” he thundered. “This is war.”

The men erupted in shouts of vengeance, Marco among them, his eyes alight with zeal. Adriana stood at the edge of the room, her stomach twisting.

War with the Morettis meant war with Damian.

And though she told herself she hated him, though she tried to bury the memory of his voice, the truth echoed mercilessly in her chest:

She didn’t fear him.

She feared what she felt for him.

And in the heart of a family rivalry that would drench the streets in blood, that fear might destroy her.