Shadows Of Trust

Adrian POV:

The silence isn’t peace, it’s pressure. It clings to the walls, thick and suffocating. Every creak, every faint echo of footsteps sounds like a threat. I can almost smell the smoke from the day my father died, the blood still fresh in my memory.

I walk the hallways alone, gun in hand, eyes sharp. Power doesn’t wait for grief. It doesn’t mourn the dead. It demands presence—command—and right now, that burden rests entirely on me.

In the study, Luca stands over the desk, papers and reports scattered across it like evidence in a crime scene. His eyes are grim as he scans the documents, his hand running through his hair in frustration.

“We’ve got shipments delayed,” he says. “And chatter in Palermo—someone’s probing our defenses.”

I stop pacing, jaw tightening. “Testing us.”

He nods. “Exactly. They’re trying to see if you’re weak now that your father’s gone.”

I say nothing for a moment. Weakness is a luxury I can’t afford. The entire family is watching, waiting for me to fail—or to strike.

“They won’t find weakness here,” I say finally, voice low. “They’ll find a wall.”

Luca studies me. “You think this is connected to the hit on your father?”

“Everything’s connected,” I answer. “Whoever ordered it knows the family, knows our movements, knows how to hurt us.”

The thought burns in my chest. My father’s death wasn’t random—it was calculated. And the closer I get to the truth, the more I feel the noose tightening around me.

I move behind the desk, spreading the reports out, scanning every line. Names. Routes. Numbers. Every word feels like a clue, a thread in a web I haven’t yet unraveled.

“Adrian,” Luca says quietly, “you’ve barely slept.”

“I’ll sleep when the traitor’s dead.”

He doesn’t argue. He knows better than to waste time convincing me. Instead, he pours me a glass of whiskey and leans against the wall, eyes watching me carefully.

“You need to think clearly. If you start seeing ghosts, you’ll miss the real enemies.”

“I see clearly enough,” I mutter. “The problem isn’t ghosts, Luca. It’s people I still have to pretend to trust.”

---

Morning comes like an insult. The sun cuts through the curtains, lighting the bruises under my eyes. I wash my face with cold water, throw on a black suit, and head to the dining hall.

The surviving captains and lieutenants wait for me there—men who have served my family for years, some since before I was born. They rise when I enter, a silent acknowledgment that the son has become the boss.

But their eyes—those tell a different story. Fear. Doubt. Calculation.

I take the head of the table, the same seat my father once ruled from. My hands rest flat against the polished wood.

“Report,” I say.

One of the lieutenants clears his throat. “There’s unrest in Palermo, sir. One of our suppliers hasn’t answered calls. Word is they’re switching sides.”

I stare at him. “Sides?”

“Yes, boss. Someone’s making offers behind your back.”

Luca, standing to my right, crosses his arms. “A rival syndicate wouldn’t move this fast unless they had inside help.”

The table goes silent. Every man knows what that means. There’s a traitor here—inside the Moretti walls.

I let the silence stretch until it hurts. Until they start sweating.

Then, quietly, I say, “Find them. Anyone who’s switched sides dies. No negotiations.”

A few nods. Uneasy ones. I continue, voice firm, steady.

“We don’t wait for mercy. We take control. From this day forward, every route, every shipment, every account comes directly through me. No exceptions.”

A few faces tighten. Old habits die hard. They were used to my father’s rule—his brutality, his unpredictability. I’m not him, but I carry his blood, and that’s enough to make them listen.

---

When the meeting ends, Luca follows me out onto the balcony overlooking the estate. The morning air is cool, sharp with the scent of iron and roses.

“You’re changing things too fast,” he says. “These men aren’t used to it.”

“They’ll adapt or be replaced.”

He sighs. “You sound like Vittorio.”

The name hits me like a punch. My father’s name. I turn toward Luca, eyes hard.

“I’m not him,” I say. “I’ll never be him.”

Luca’s gaze softens, but only slightly. “Maybe not. But the world expects you to be. And expectations get people killed.”

I stare out over the gardens, the stone fountains glinting under the pale light. Somewhere out there, Isabella is probably walking, trying to breathe after everything that happened. She doesn’t belong in this world. And yet, she’s the only thing in it that feels real.

I don’t know what I’d do if I lost her too.

Luca checks his watch. “I’ll handle the Palermo problem.”

I nod. “Good. Send word when you have something solid.”

When he leaves, I remain on the balcony, whiskey glass in hand, staring down at the courtyard. Men move below—guards, loyal soldiers, servants pretending not to be afraid.

This place is supposed to be home. But all I feel now is distance. Cold walls. Quiet corridors. Shadows whispering my name.

My father ruled with fear. I promised myself I’d rule with order. But maybe order needs a little fear to survive.

And as the morning sun burns through the mist, I make a silent promise—to my father, to myself, and to the ghosts that haunt this house:

Whoever betrayed us will die by my hand.