LOGINMatteo Ricci is the ruthless founder of the Diavlo Scuri MC, a name whispered in fear across the underworld. He's cold, doesn’t beg, and doesn’t chase… unless it’s her. Giulianna Bianchi. The only woman who ever owned his blackened heart. But she disappeared without a trace while carrying his child. The only heir of The Diavlo Scuri MC. Now, he’s hunted every lead, burned every bridge, and bled for every scrap of information. Because Matteo isn’t just looking for her, he’s obsessed. Possessed. Deranged enough to tear the world apart to get her back. She thinks she can outrun the past. She thinks he’ll never find her. But Giuli should know by now that Matteo always gets what he wants. And he wants her.
View MoreI don’t go back to the bedroom. I can’t.I sit in the dark of the study, the tablet glowing like a radioactive coal in my hand. My thumb hovers over the screen, scrolling through the "drawing" app. On the surface, it’s all digital finger-paints—smudged rainbows and lopsided houses. But I’m looking at the cache files. I’m looking at the background data.Hidden behind a file labeled *‘Sunflowers.jpg’* is a burst of outbound packets. Encrypted. Tier-one military grade.Sofia is five. She knows how to ask for more juice and how to hide her vegetables under the rim of her plate. She doesn't know how to bounce a signal off a ghost satellite in the North Atlantic.I hear a soft creak in the hallway.I slide the tablet under a stack of papers and pull my Beretta from the desk drawer in one fluid motion, keeping it below the line of the mahogany.It’s Rossa.She’s wearing her dressing gown, carrying a warm glass of milk. She stops in the doorway, her eyes landing on me, then shifting to the de
The night feels heavier than usual. The wind outside hums through the olive trees, a low, steady whisper that sounds almost like warning.I haven’t told Giuli about Enzo’s plan. Not because I want to lie—but because I know how she’d look at me if I did. That quiet disappointment in her eyes, the kind that slices deeper than any knife.So I keep my mouth shut. I let the silence between us stretch, let it wrap around this house that’s pretending to be a home.Rossa tucks Sofia into bed before dinner’s done. She always hums the same lullaby, the same one Giuli used to hum when things were simpler—when the world hadn’t yet decided to take everything from us.Giuli sits by the balcony afterward, a book resting on her lap, unread. The golden light spills over her face, softening the shadows under her eyes.“Long day?” she asks when I step out.“Always,” I reply, my voice lower than I intend.She doesn’t look up. Just nods, fingers brushing the pages. “I meant what I said earlier. You need t
Giuli doesn’t speak to me yet. She’s calm—too calm. The kind of silence that screams louder than shouting.Sofia sits between us, her small hands holding a spoonful of porridge, humming a tune Rossa taught her.And Rossa, as always, moves through the kitchen with grace. Smiling. Warm. Effortlessly blending into the routine like she’s always belonged here.But I can feel her eyes flick to me every few seconds.Just brief enough to seem natural, just sharp enough to make my skin crawl.When Sofia laughs, Rossa joins in, soft and motherly. I almost believe it again.Almost.By noon, I’m already out of the villa. The drive to the docks is long, but it’s what I need—space, noise, distance.Giuli stayed behind with Sofia. She told me to “let it go,” but I can’t. Not when everything inside me screams that something’s off.I park near the old warehouse where Enzo works his operations—our safehouse for things that shouldn’t exist on paper.The sea wind hits hard, bringing the smell of rust and
It’s strange how peace feels like a performance.Every laugh, every calm breakfast, every moment where Giuli and Sofia smile—it’s all part of a show I’m not sure I know the ending to anymore.And lately, it’s her I can’t take my eyes off.Signora Rossa.She moves through the house like she’s always belonged here. Folding laundry, singing softly as she cooks, whispering lullabies to Sofia as if she carried her blood. She’s perfect—too perfect.Giuli trusts her again. I can tell. She wants to believe the story—the diary, the innocent explanation, the warm words. I want to believe it too, God knows I do. But something in me doesn’t sit right.The kind of wrong that keeps me awake even when Giuli’s asleep in my arms.It’s midnight now. The house is quiet except for the ticking of the old clock in the hallway. Giuli’s breathing slow beside me, one arm draped over my chest. But my eyes are open.I can’t stop thinking about that damn notebook.Earlier today, Rossa was too calm. Too composed.
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