Chapter 2 — The Enemy’s Daughter

Bela

THE HARSH morning sun cut through the tall glass windows, waking me.

I sat up slowly, wrapping the dark silk sheet around my bare chest. My body ached with a deep, lingering heat from the night before.

Seb was gone. The space beside me on the mattress was cold.

I stepped out of the bed, my bare feet padding across the hardwood floor toward the heavy double doors. I grabbed the silver handles and pulled with all my strength.

They didn't budge.

A heavy, hollow click echoed through the wood. The doors were locked from the outside.

I was trapped again.

The explosive, desperate intimacy of the night before hadn't changed anything. I was still his captive.

Before panic could set in, the lock clicked open, and the door swung wide.

An older servant with silver-streaked hair and deeply lined eyes walked into the master suite, followed by two younger maids.

I knew her. And, I was sure she remembered me too.

They carried several garment bags filled with high-end designer clothes, laying them across the foot of the bed.

“Where is Sebastian?” I demanded, my voice raw and rough. “Unlock these doors.”

The younger maids kept their eyes downcast, stepping back in fear.

The older woman—Maria, the head housekeeper—dismissed the young girls with a quiet nod. Once the doors shut behind them, she held up a striking emerald-green knitted dress.

“Signorina Bela,” Maria whispered, her voice low and tight. “Resisting Mr. Ricaforte in private is your own business. But you must obey today. High-society guests are arriving at the penthouse this afternoon.”

“I am not playing dress-up for Sebastian,” I spat, my hands clenching into fists.

Maria stepped closer, her sharp eyes fixing onto mine with dead serious intensity.

“Listen to me,” Maria urged softly. “Don Bernardo’s daughter is coming. If you act defiant, if you draw attention to yourself, they will look closely at your face. Put on the dress. Play your part. Survival means blending into the background.”

Her words hit me like a slap of ice water.

She was right. If the Morettis discovered that Belarina Dela Costa was still breathing inside this penthouse, a sniper bullet would end my bloodline before nightfall.

Swallowing my pride was not defeat—it was my shield.

Ten minutes later, I stood downstairs in the main lounge, dressed in the green knitted dress.

The penthouse had been completely transformed. Caterers in white coats moved between silver tables. The estate wasn't just hosting a dinner, it was preparing for syndicate royalty.

Sebastian stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Milan.

He wore a charcoal tailored suit, holding a glass of amber scotch. He was the picture of calm, deadly authority. Looking at him, no one would ever guess the violent way he had held me against the mattress last night.

His dark eyes tracked me instantly as I entered the room.

He didn't smile. He gave a slight nod to his men, and four guards shifted into position, blocking every exit corridor.

Before I could move, the front doors swung open.

The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly, turning cold and heavy.

A glamorous woman stepped into the foyer. She wore a pristine white tailored pantsuit that contrasted sharply with her dark, chin-length bob.

Every movement she made dripped with generational wealth, arrogance, and cold power.

Alessandra Moretti.

She was the daughter of Don Bernardo Moretti—the monster who had ordered the slaughter of my parents and burned my home to the ground seven years ago.

My blood ran cold, hatred surging up my throat like poison.

“Sebastian,” Alessandra murmured softly, her voice smooth like polished silk.

Seb walked forward, catching her hand and pressing a practiced, courtly kiss against her knuckles. “Alessandra. Welcome.”

Then, Seb turned her slightly toward the room, his next words shattering the air:

“Everyone, this is Alessandra Moretti. My fiancée.”

My chest tightened so hard I could barely draw breath.

Seb was marrying the daughter of the man who slaughtered my family.

Alessandra smiled, but as her gaze scanned the room, it stopped squarely on me. Her manicured brow arched.

A woman raised in the mafia could smell a threat in a room full of smoke.

“And who is this, Sebastian?” Alessandra asked, her tone polite but razor-sharp as she stepped toward me.

Seb stepped between us just enough to create a barrier, his face an unreadable stone mask.

“She is someone under my protection,” Seb replied smoothly, his voice devoid of warmth. “An insignificant servant girl from the South. An old acquaintance of the family.”

Alessandra’s eyes narrowed slightly. She didn't fully believe him.

She took two slow steps, stopping a single foot away from me, her dark eyes scanning my burgundy curls, my pale skin, and my green dress.

“Have we met before?” Alessandra asked, testing me, her gaze digging into my face.

This was the moment.

If I showed an ounce of pride, if I glared at her with the hatred burning in my heart, she would question who I really was.

I had to bury Belarina Dela Costa completely.

I intentionally dropped my gaze to the floor. I let my shoulders slump, making my posture look weak, small, and uneducated.

“No, Signorina Moretti,” I said in a quiet, flat, deadpan voice, looking straight at her leather shoes. “I am just a maid. I clean the rooms and fetch the water.”

Alessandra stared down at me for three long, agonizing seconds.

Seeing my dull eyes and my submissive posture, the sharp suspicion in her face dissolved into pure, aristocratic disgust.

To her, I was just trash—a mindless Southern peasant girl beneath her notice.

“I see,” Alessandra drawled boredly, turning her back on me. “Make sure she cleans the glasses properly, Sebastian. Southern servants are always so lazy.”

“Of course,” Seb said softly, his dark eyes locking onto mine over her shoulder with an intense, burning approval. “Come, let me show you the terrace.”

I stood still in the lounge as Seb guided his fiancée away.

My hands trembled against my green dress, but a fierce, quiet clarity settled over my mind.

I understood now.

Seb wasn't marrying Alessandra out of love or betrayal.

He was playing a terrifying double game.

He was keeping his enemies close—pretending to align with Don Bernardo Moretti to gather evidence and tear their syndicate down from the inside.

And to keep the last Dela Costa heir alive while he fought that war, he had hidden me right under their noses, disguised as a nameless maid.

I was not just a helpless captive waiting for a rescue.

I was a survivor hiding in plain sight, and I would play the brainless servant for as long as it took to see the Morettis burn.

Hours later, the meeting concluded, and Alessandra left with her entourage.

The penthouse returned to a quiet, heavy silence. I walked into Seb’s private study, finding him standing near his desk, pouring another glass of scotch.

He didn't turn around, but his voice cut through the quiet:

“You did well today, Bela.”

“I did what I had to do to survive,” I replied coldly, stepping closer to his desk. “She thinks I am nothing. Your enemies think I am dead.”

Seb set the glass down, turning slowly to face me. His dark eyes were bloodshot, heavy, and filled with a possessive heat.

“They will continue to think you are dead,” Seb rasped, stepping into my space until his massive frame shadowed me completely. “You stay in this penthouse. You wear the grey maid uniform when guests arrive. You keep your head down.”

He reached out, his gloved fingers wrapping firmly around my chin, forcing me to look straight into his dark eyes.

“And remember who you belong to,” Seb whispered low against my lips.

I didn't flinch. I stared right back into his dark storm, my voice steady and sharp:

“I belong to my bloodline, Sebastian. Don't ever forget it.”