OWNED BY THE ENEMY, His Dark Claim

Amara’s POV “If Marco loved me, this test would change everything. But if I had misjudged him… then one pink line might ruin both our lives.” “Tell me, Amara, tell me, tell me!” Emma’s excitement spilled over her words, her voice higher than usual. My hands trembled as I placed the pregnancy test kit on the table. “I don’t know what it says. You check. I’ve never used one before.” Emma didn't need more encouragement. She slid into my spot, taking the kit with eager fingers. I stepped aside, heart hammering. Emma’s mother was a nurse, and Emma had practically grown up in the hospital halls. If anyone could read it right, it was her. But then…. Silent. Emma’s eyes lingered on the test, unreadable. “Don’t go quite on me,” I urged, voice sharp with nerves. “What does it say?” She looked at me, then grinned so wide it nearly split her face. “We’re having little Marco.… and I’m going to be an aunt!” she shrieked. “Shhh!” I slapped a hand over her mouth before she woke

Amara’s POV Emma had come in earlier after I was asked to call someone to bail me out. She was the only one I could think of besides Nonna. Seeing me in the cell brought tears to her eyes. She had feared something terrible had happened since I’d gone silent after her call. She gripped the bars and whispered apologies as if it were her fault, and that broke me. I hadn’t wanted to cry in front of all these strangers, but with Emma there, I couldn’t hold it back. A rustle of paper snapped my attention. A folded document slid across the table to me. “Marriage contract,” the stranger said, his voice deep and commanding, as though the walls themselves leaned into listen. I blinked at the page, then at him. “Marriage contract?” The words scraped out of me, thin and disbelieving. His eyes didn't waver. Sharp, calculating, like he already knew my answer. “You don't need to think too hard about it.” It wasn't an offer. It was an order. Damian, the man who hovered just behind hi

Amara’s POV The wedding venue was nothing like I had ever seen before. Marble columns rose like sentinels at the entrance, flanked by men in dark suits whose eyes scanned every car that pulled up. Luxury vehicles glided into place, engines purring like predators at rest. From each stepped men with sharp jawlines, silk ties, and movements calculated with military precision. Their gold cufflinks glinted beneath the midday sun, their shoes polished to mirrors. Some bore tattoos curling up their wrists, others scars that marked old wars fought in shadow. This was no ordinary gathering. This was the underworld parading itself in daylight. La Camorra Nera. I walked through their stares, Emma close at my side. My chest felt tight. Each glance I caught from the men was not curiosity but assessment, like they were measuring how much of a liability or asset I could be. And at the centre of it all, though I couldn't see him yet, I could feel him—Alessandro. His presence pressed on the ro

Amara’s POV The hall felt like a lion’s den. Every eye in the room turned when Damian guided me inside. I could feel the stares crawling over me—men in dark suits with eyes like predators, whispers moving between them like smoke. The air was thick, charged, suffocating. I walked slowly, clutching my dress to keep my trembling hands steady. The seat beside Alessandro had been prepared for me, a throne-like chair that seemed far too grand, far too dangerous, for me to occupy. But before I could reach it, a sharp tug yanked at my gown. I stumbled, nearly falling, my breath catching in my throat. The sound of silk tearing filled my ears, followed by low laughter. I lifted my eyes and saw her. Ginevra. Her smile was cruel as she lowered herself to the chair meant for me. “This seat belongs to me,” she said coldly, her voice cutting through the hush of the ball. “I have known him longer than you. Someone of your status does not deserve to sit here.” My heart hammered

Amara’s POV The music drifted through the mansion Like smoke—Italian strings winding about the hum of low conversations. I stood beside Alessandro as he greeted his guests, each handshake and nod laden with some code I couldn't understand. He didn't just speak words; he made transactions with his silence, his gaze, the tilt of his head. I felt invisible at his side, yet watched more closely than ever. A waiter approached with a silver tray. Alessandro waved the first glass towards me. I accepted, my hands trembled slightly, before he took the next one for himself. The gesture should have felt polite, maybe even protective, but it only reminded me of how he controlled every moment I made—how I was a pawn being placed on a board I didn't know the rules of. Emma’s words echoed in my head. You know what to do with it. The pills burned against my memory hidden inside my purse. But how do you spike a mafia lord’s drink? He wasn't foolish enough to drink from just anyone. And me?