All Chapters of OWNED BY THE ENEMY: His Dark Claim: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

Alessandro’s POV After the La Camorra Nera meeting, I told Damian to take me straight to Don Epifanio’s mansion. Victor slipped into the car beside me, uninvited but insistent. I did not protest. Sometimes silence denies more than words. The ride was brief. Damian eased the car down the narrow street until the Epifanio gates opened to receive us. Inside, the house was alive in a way mine never was. Laughter spilled from the hall before we had even crossed the threshold. On the couch, Lorenzo leaned into Rebecca with a tenderness that seemed to dissolve the room around them. His hands cupped her face as if she were glass. Their mouths met in a kiss so open, so unguarded, it felt almost like trespassing. Desire lit them both, a fire with no shame in showing itself. Their kiss was unashamed, open, a fire burning without fear of witnesses. “You could have put a ‘do not enter’ sign on the door,” I said dryly. They broke apart laughing, Lorenzo unbothered. “My favorite men are her

Amara’s POV The sound of the front door clicking shut woke me. Heavy steps, muffled voices — Alessandro’s and Damian’s — trailed down the corridor until silence folded over the house again. They were gone. I rose, dressed, and made my way to the kitchen. The air was thick with oil and garlic. Knives clattered against wooden boards, pots hissed, and the maids moved with frantic precision, as though each second wasted might cost them more than just Alessandro’s displeasure. It wasn't a kitchen but a hive of fear, every gesture clipped, every voice swallowed before it reached the air. I paused at the doorway, watching. Elena moved faster than all of them, though her face was pale with strain. Swear dampened her hairline. She carried bowls, wiped counters, adjusted pots — a soldier fighting against collapse. Then Ginevra swept in. Her perfume hit the air first, sweet and choking. She carried a handful of folded clothes, tossing them carelessly into Matilde's waiting hands.

Victor’s POV I was never invited to the dinner, but absence was never my style. Drama was the only banquet I couldn’t refuse, and tonight promised a feast. Ginevra and Rebecca — two women who had once been inseparable, the kind of friends people whispered about, bound tighter than blood. Until Ginevra spread her legs for Rocco, Don Eduardo’s son, the man promised to Rebecca. Betrayal that deep doesn't fade; it rots. Rebecca’s father, Don Dante, had tried to call Francesco to account, but Ginevra and her father twisted the story, played it so well that Dante ended up expelled from La Camorra. Since then, the women had been enemies — one clinging to her defiance, the other to her pride. I wanted front-row seats. Rebecca’s smile cut like glass as she dismissed Ginevra’s barbs at the table. Alessandro did nothing — sat there with that stillness of his, letting Amara absorb every sting. The silence around him wasn't weakness, though, it was a calculation. The meal ended the way

Amara’s POV The morning after the fitting, the house felt colder — not in the air, but in the looks that followed me. Whispers had already spread. They always do. I could have hidden in my room, but instead I knocked on Ginvera’s door. When she opened it, she looked almost amused, like a cat expecting the mouse to finally beg for mercy. “I came to thank you,” I said softly. My hands cradled a wrapped bundle — the silk she offered me at the fitting, now neatly folded, returned like a peace offering. Her brows arched. Suspicion flickered. “You’re right, Ginevra,” I continued. “I don’t belong here. Not like you. But… Rebecca asked me to stand with her. And she seems to value me, for now. So I’ll play my part.” I held the dress out with both hands. “I thought this might suit you for the bridal fitting. You have such beautiful taste.” The smile that touched my lips wasn't gratitude. It was quieter, sharper. I saw her catch it — that silver of defiance buried inside courtesy.

Amara’s POV I woke with a heaviness that felt stitched into my skin. My Limbs were slow, my stomach sour, the air thick against my lungs. For the first time, panic struck me. Was this it—the real symptoms I had feared would come? The ones with no coffee, no calm face, and no mask of composure could hide? I sat on the edge of the bed, pressing my palm to my stomach. Not yet. Not here. Not in front of them. I needed to hold out until the month’s turn, until everything aligned with the wedding night. Any sinner and the truth would betray me. I forced myself up, steadying against the wall, and went to the kitchen. The servants were already in motion: Matilde directing dishes, Elena bent over herbs, the others shifting like shadows. I brewed coffee the way I always did, the ritual soothing my nerves. I poured two cups—one for Alessandro, one for Damian. A gesture. A shield of normalcy. By the time the breakfast table was set, the air in the dining hall felt taut, as if everyo