All Chapters of OWNED BY THE ENEMY, His Dark Claim: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

Victo’s POV The study smelled of old leather and brandy — an aroma that always made power feel like a thing you could inhale. Don Vittorio sat behind the desk like a monarch in a carved cage, a glass of wine warming his hand. He looked small in the high chair, but the way he folded his fingers around the stem told me he still held the room. “Father,” I said, and kept my voice even. Anger was fine; it had to be measured. “You just sit and watch while everything slips away.” He did not look up. He read instead, or pretended to. The book’s flit edges caught the light and broke into fragments that danced at the corner of his eyes. “You blame me for things you could not—” His words cut off. He set the book down carefully, like a man lowering a live animal into its pen. “If Don Francesco is allowed to keep pulling strings, Alessandro will sit where we once thought only my blood would sit. You know that.” I let the statement hang. It tasted like a provocation. Don Vittorio finally l

Alessandro’s POV. The taste of last night clung bitterly on my tongue — wine, silence, and the ghost of her lips. My head throbbed, heavy with drink, heavier still with memory I wasn't sure I trusted. I pushed myself upright, the sheets smelling faintly of her perfume though I knew she never lain here. Damian’s knock came too soon, reminding me of the day’s duties—Rebecca’s wedding preparations, Francesco’s errands, he endless weight of expectations. But all I could think of was a pair of eyes too young and too steady on mine, and the words I half-remember whispering into the dark: Don’t leave me. My head throbbed, my body remembered too much. Rebecca’s wedding loomed like a storm cloud over the estate, but inside me it was already raining. I couldn't look at Amara without remembering her hand on my face, her lips on mine, her whisper that she would stay if I asked. A choice I hadn't made and yet couldn't shake. Rebecca’s voice carried from the villa garden, brisk and commandin

Amara’s POV The house felt quieter than usual, though the normal bustle of servants went on. I moved through the corridors with practiced grace, coffee in hand, but a pricking unease had settled over me. Something was off. A glance here, a whispered word there—it all felt slightly wrong, as though the air carried a secret beyond my reach. From the corner of my eye, I caught Matilde glancing at me, her smile strained, hands fidgeting with a cloth. Elena lingered longer than necessary, her eyes flickering toward me and away again. Small things, meaningless in their own—but together, they set my nerves on edge. I paused outside the kitchen doorway, noticing a young boy scurry past, whispering something to Matilde. I didn't hear the words clearly, but the way they glanced at me afterward sent a chill through my stomach. Who had told them? And why now? Ginevra had been distant lately, sharper with her smiles, her glances heavy with amusement or threat—I couldn't tell which. My gut, the

Amara’s POV I couldn’t lie to myself anymore—something had shifted in the air of the villa. The laughter I heard in the corridors wasn’t the same kind as before. It was sharp-edged, quick to die the moment I walked past. Servants stopped mid-sentence, voices falling into awkward silence. Even Matilde, who could never keep her mouth shut, now avoided my eyes. I didn’t need anyone to tell me what it was about. The rumor had found its way into every corner of the house now. And I knew who it was about. Me. Everywhisper, every sideways glance, every forced smile—It all carried the same question: Was it true? Was I sneaking around? Meeting someone in secret? For a moment I almost laughed at the absurdity of it. If only they knew how small my world truly was. I barely left the villa, except when Rebecca dragged me to fittings or tastings. But lies didn’t need truth to survive—they only needed attention, and this house fed on attention like oxygen. Still… what frightened m

Rebecca’s POV I kept hearing Victor’s voice long after he left me by that fountain. “Trust me, Rebecca. You’ll thank me when it works.” He’d said he could help me get revenge. He said he would “save Alessandro” and even “protect Amara.” It sounded almost noble—until I remembered who was speaking. Victor Vittorio didn't do noble. He played people like instruments, and we all danced when he chose the tune. Still, a part of me wanted to believe him. Maybe because the wound Ginevra left had never really healed. Maybe because I still wanted to see her suffer. But trusting Victor? That was suicide. So I decided to do something else—something safer. I drove to Lorenzo’s villa. The gates opened before I even reached the horn, and Lorenzo stepped out, smiling as though he’d been waiting for me. “Rebbe,” he said, wrapping his arms around me before I could even speak. His kiss was warm, familiar, grounding. I let myself melt into it—for a moment, I almost forgot why I was