All Chapters of OWNED BY THE ENEMY: His Dark Claim: Chapter 101 - Chapter 110

Alessandro’s POV The hallway was too white. Too bright. Too loud. Every second felt like a blade carving through my ribs as I paced in front of the operating doors, my hands still stained with Amara’s blood. Damian stood beside me, whispering something about breathing, but I couldn't hear him. My pulse was a hammer in my ears. All I could see… Was her lying there on the concrete. Her blood on my hands. Her eyes closed. I did this. The doors burst open, and two nurses hurried out, pushing a cart of instruments. I lunged forward. “Is she alive?” The question tore out of me like a raw scream. A doctor in light scrubs approached. He had the expression of someone who’d delivered too many near-tragedies. He removed his gloves slowly, meeting my eyes with an unreadable calm. “Signore Vitale,” he began. The world stopped. “You can relax,” he finally said. “She is stable.” My knees almost buckled. “The cut on her wrist was deep but clean,” he continued. “We closed it.

Amara’s POV The first thing I felt was warmth. Not my own—his. The faint trace of Alessandro’s cologne clung to the sheets near my pillow, and a soft imprint lingered on my forehead as if a kiss had been placed there not too long ago. I remembered it faintly, like a dream filtered through heavy sleep. His whisper—something low, warm, regretful—had brushed the edge of my consciousness. But the sedative the nurse gave me had pinned my body down like sandbags. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t open my eyes. Couldn’t reach him. Now I was awake. And he was gone. I pushed myself upright slowly, every bone in my body feeling too light, too weak. The room felt wrong without him—too wide, too quiet, too cold. My feet touched the floor. Pain pulsed, but I kept going. I opened the door. Damian was sitting right outside, elbows resting on his knees, head down like he’d been thinking too hard. The moment he heard the door, he shot up. “You’re awake,” he said gently. I nodded. I didn’t

Ginevra’s POV The taxi ride home felt like a humiliation tattooed into my skin. I replayed Alessandro’s voice again and again—cold, flat, dismissive. Find your own way home. I don’t care how you do it. He had never spoken to me like that. Not even in our worst fights. Not even when I pushed him too far, today, he hadn’t raised his voice; he had simply… cut me off. When I reached the villa, still fuming and shaken, I barely made it through the door before Matilde cornered me. “Signorina,” she whispered urgently, eyes wide, “it's Amara. She tried to hurt herslef—and then she left.” My heart stuttered. “What?” “And Signor Alessandro… he went after her.” Of course he did. Of course, he would throw everything aside for Amara. He always did. But I was never stupid. I'd prepared for a moment like this months ago. While my hands trembled, my mind sharpened. I grabbed my phone and opened the private tracking app I’d installed myself—the one linked to the small tracker tu

Alessandro’s POV Morning light hit the hospital windows too softly for the night we’d just survived. Amara walked beside me slowly, her hand curled into mine, her steps careful—like her body still remembered the fear even though the danger had passed. I kept a steady pace, not rushing her, not letting go. Every few seconds I glanced at her, just to make sure she was really there, breathing, alive. When we reached the car, I opened the door for her. She sank into the seat like she was stepping into safety itself. And maybe she was. I drove with one hand on the wheel, the other covering her thigh—not for possession, but reassurance. Her fingers found my wrist and held there quietly. Neither of us spoke. She stared out the window, a mixture of exhaustion, relief, and unspoken fear flickering through her eyes. I didn’t push her. Last night had carved something deep into both of us. When we finally reached the villa, the air felt different—too still, too quiet. As if the hous

Amara’s POV The house had never felt this quiet before. Not the peaceful kind of quiet—the one that settles after rain or before sleep—but the kind that presses against your ears, heavy and wrong, like it’s waiting for something to break it. I sat on the edge of the bed Alessandro had helped me into barely an hour ago, my fingers twisted in my lap. The room still smelled faintly of antiseptic and clean sheets, a reminder that I had only just returned from the hospital. My wrist throbbed beneath the fresh bandage, a dull ache that pulsed in time with my heartbeat. But it wasn't the pain that kept me tense. It was him. Alessandro had left for the La Camorra meeting with a calm smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He had kissed my forehead, told me to rest, and promised he'd be back soon. Soon, it had stretched into something uncomfortable. I tried to read, I tried to sleep. I even tried to convince myself I was imagining the tightness in my chest. I wasn't. The house fel