Chapter 5: Secrets and Shadows

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.

“You’re awake too,” Sofia murmured. “I thought I heard you pacing.”

Adriana forced a smile. “Just restless. Too much wine at dinner.”

Sofia studied her, unconvinced. “You’ve been different these past days. Quieter. Like you’re carrying something heavy.”

Adriana’s heart tightened. She had always been closest to Sofia, protective of her innocence. But this secret—this dangerous obsession—could never be shared.

“I’m fine,” Adriana said gently, brushing her sister’s hair back from her face. “You worry too much.”

Sofia hesitated, then nodded, though her eyes lingered with quiet concern. “If you say so. Goodnight, sorella.”

When she left, Adriana exhaled shakily, pressing her palms to her face. She couldn’t keep unraveling like this. She needed to bury Damian Moretti in the shadows of her mind where he belonged.

But shadows had a way of creeping back.

---

Two days later, in Naples, Damian Moretti stood in his private study, staring at the bloodstained note tossed on his desk. Another ally had bent to Rossi pressure, abandoning negotiations with the Morettis. It should have fueled his rage—it did—but beneath the fire, another thought gnawed at him.

Her.

Adriana Rossi.

He cursed under his breath, gripping the edge of the desk until his knuckles whitened. He had seen countless women—beautiful, willing, dangerous. None of them haunted him like she did. None of them had stood in the doorway of his violence, trembling but unbroken, meeting his eyes as if daring him to strike.

It was madness. She was forbidden. She was his enemy’s daughter.

And yet, when he closed his eyes, he could still smell the faint sweetness of her perfume, feel the heat of her nearness.

He turned sharply as footsteps approached. Matteo, his most trusted lieutenant, entered, his brow furrowed.

“You’re distracted, Damian,” Matteo said bluntly. “That’s not like you.”

Damian shot him a warning look. “Careful.”

Matteo crossed his arms. “Careful is my job. If you let your mind wander now, Enzo Rossi will take your head. Whatever ghost you’re chasing, bury it before it buries you.”

Damian didn’t answer. He only stared back at the note, shadows tightening around his thoughts.

---

Back in Amalfi, the Rossi villa buzzed with preparations for another gathering. Adriana dressed carefully, her maid lacing her into emerald silk. She told herself she was dressing for her father’s allies, for the watchful eyes of Naples society. But when she glanced in the mirror, she wondered if she was lying to herself.

In the great hall, Isabella was already there, radiant in crimson. She greeted Adriana with a saccharine smile, her eyes flicking over the gown.

“Green suits you,” Isabella said smoothly. “Like envy.”

Adriana’s lips curved faintly. “And red suits you. Like blood.”

The men nearby chuckled, assuming it was playful banter. But the way Isabella’s smile tightened told Adriana she had landed the blow.

Later, as the gathering swelled with smoke and music, Adriana slipped into the garden for air. The night was cool, the sea crashing against the cliffs below. She leaned against the balustrade, closing her eyes.

And when she opened them, her breath caught.

In the shadow of the cypress trees, half-hidden from the torchlight, a figure watched her.

Her pulse leapt.

Damian.

She blinked, half-convinced it was an illusion. But then he stepped forward, the darkness clinging to him like a cloak, his gaze fixed on her with the same intensity that had burned her since the moment they met.

Her lips parted, a thousand warnings on her tongue—but none came. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

For a heartbeat, neither spoke. The world fell away, leaving only shadows, secrets, and the forbidden thread binding them closer with every glance.

And Adriana knew, in that moment, that she was already his prisoner. Not by chains. Not by blood.

By obsession.