LOGINBellaThe dining room had grown louder over the years.Not with arguments or strategy, but with children—barefoot footsteps on stone floors, laughter that echoed too freely to ever be mistaken for danger, the soft chaos of a life that no longer revolved around survival.I stood just inside the doorway for a moment, watching it all.Vivianna—now four and endlessly dramatic—was perched on Marco’s lap, explaining something with the seriousness of a tiny general issuing orders. Her younger brother, Matteo, toddled determinedly toward the table, clutching a wooden spoon like a weapon. Across the room, Elena and Enzo’s daughter chased their son in circles around the chairs, both of them shrieking with laughter until Mabel clapped her hands sharply and threatened exile from dessert.It was loud.It was messy.It was perfect.Aristide came up behind me, his hand warm and familiar at my lower back. There were faint silver threads at his temples now, earned rather than feared, and a softness to
Elena - A few months after the fall of CipherPeace arrived without ceremony.No announcement. No sudden exhale from the world. Just the slow realization that I could wake up without reaching for contingency plans first. That my phone stayed quiet. That the guards rotated with routine instead of urgency. That the house—this massive, echoing Moretti estate—felt lived in again rather than braced for impact.It unsettled me more than war ever had.I’d been raised on vigilance. On preparation. On the understanding that safety was temporary and love was a liability unless fortified by power. Even after Cipher was gone—truly gone, his network dismantled piece by piece—I still expected the knock, the call, the whispered warning that something had been missed.But it never came.Instead, life kept going.Bella filled the house with softness. With routines centered around Vivianna’s naps and feedings. Aristide laughed more easily now—still sharp, still commanding, but no longer carrying the co
EnzoI learned a long time ago that fear doesn’t announce itself the way people expect.It doesn’t come screaming.It doesn’t shake your hands or steal your breath.Fear settles in quietly, like a weight you don’t realize you’re carrying until you try to stand.I felt it the moment Aristide said we were moving.Final confrontation.Those words had lived in the background of our lives for months—circling, waiting. Now they were here, solid and unavoidable. Cipher was cornered. Desperate. Dangerous in the way wounded animals always were.And I was going back into the line of fire with my body still remembering what it felt like to be torn open.But that wasn’t what scared me.What scared me was Elena.She stood a few feet away from the others, arms crossed, posture composed, eyes sharp and calculating. Anyone else would’ve seen only the strategist, the Moretti steel.I saw the woman who had knelt in blood-soaked silk and held me together with her bare hands.I saw the one person I had n
Elena MorettiThe night had already been wrong before it broke open.I felt it in the way the air pressed too close to my skin as we stepped out toward the valet, in the way the city lights felt sharpened instead of distant. Too bright. Too exposed. Sofia’s “gesture of goodwill” still sat uneasily in my chest, like a piece that didn’t belong in the puzzle.Danger never announced itself cleanly. It whispered first.When the man in the gray suit stepped out of the hedge, my hand moved instinctively—toward the inside of my jacket, toward the familiar weight there. Aristide stiffened beside me. Enzo was already closer, his presence a solid line at my side, quiet and alert.I watched everything.The man’s eyes were anxious, darting. His hands came up fast in surrender.“It’s not a threat,” he said. “It’s about Bianchi.”I listened, catalogued, assessed. Logistics. Longshoremen. Containers rerouted after midnight. No manifests.Truth had a cadence. Fear did too.When he handed Aristide the
Enzo - Year ThreeBy the third year, I’ve learned how to stand in a room with Elena Moretti and not touch anything that matters.It’s a skill. One I never wanted, but perfected anyway.The city changes with the seasons, but Elena doesn’t—not really. She still moves through rooms like she owns them, still speaks with that quiet authority that makes people listen even when she says very little. The difference now is that she looks… settled.That’s the lie I tell myself.When Bella enters the picture, it feels harmless at first. A favor, a responsibility. Someone my family is watching over. Someone Elena takes to immediately.I tell myself it makes sense. Elena has always collected people—not as possessions, but as orbit. Bella just slides into that space like she belongs there.And somehow, so do I.At first, Aristide drags me along under the guise of normalcy. Don’t make it obvious, he says once, clapping my shoulder like I’m not already hyper-aware of every step I take around Elena. Y
Elena Moretti - Year ThreeThe third year is the one that fools me.The first year was sharp—raw edges, distance that felt intentional. The second year was endurance, a kind of practiced restraint that let me pretend I was moving forward.The third year feels… easy.That’s how it gets me.Bella arrives in New York in late summer, when the city still smells like heat and promise, when everything feels possible even if you know better. My father asks me to show her around, nothing formal. Make sure she settles, he says. She’ll be here a while.I expect obligation.What I get is companionship.She’s funny in a quiet way, observant without being sharp. She notices things people usually overlook—the rhythm of conversations, the pauses between words. She laughs easily, but not carelessly. There’s a gentleness to her that doesn’t read as weakness. It reads as discipline.We fall into a routine without trying.Coffee before her morning classes. Long walks that turn into shared meals. Study se







