All Chapters of OWNED BY THE ENEMY: His Dark Claim: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

Ginevra’s POV After Rebecca left, the invitation lay crushed in my palm, its silver embossing blurred by sweat. Rebecca’s wedding. How poetic — that the woman who once sobbed at my feet now thought herself worthy of silk and chandeliers. I exhaled slowly and set the ruined card on my vanity. A brittle smile ghosted across my reflection. “Well, I should be there,” I murmured. “Let Rebecca have her perfect day. Let them all come dressed in their borrowed happiness.” My smile tightened. “I’ll make sure someone else’s perfection cracks before the champagne is poured.” My mind, sharp and restless, shifted to Amara—the delicate bride-doll Alessandro wished to protect, the woman Rebecca paraded through the gardens, the one who dared to look me in the eye. The one who wore pity like perfume. A small, humorless laugh escaped my throat. So fragile. So certain the house approved of her. No — Amara would be the lesson. Not Rebecca. By morning, I had summoned Matilde. She wou

Amara POV It was finally Rebecca’s day. We had all worked so hard for this — every rehearsal, every tasting, every night spent fussing over details until our eyes blurred. I still remember the day Rebecca asked me to be one of her bridesmaids. Even when I hesitated, doubting I could stand beside her so publicly after everything, she had just smiled and said, “You’ll be perfect there, Amara. You belong with us.” And now, here I was — her words echoing faintly as I looked at myself in the mirror. I had wanted Elena to help me stretch my dress earlier, but she was nowhere to be found. I’d tried calling Alice next, but before I could dial the second time, Matilde had appeared at the door, polite and smiling, offering to help. “Let me, Signora Amara,” she said. “You have too much to think about already.” I tried to insist she didn't need to trouble herself, but she wouldn't hear it. She carried the gown off, promising she’d return it soon. And when she did — right as I was fini

Salvo POV And Papa gave the order again. He didn't say much, but giving me this task means one thing—I’m his favorite. Always have been. Some of the others might talk big, but Papa doesn't hand important jobs to men he doesn't trust. I left for the Vitale estate, humming under my breath. The wedding hall wasn't far; it sat on the same property, glowing with too much laughter and music even from a distance. The Vittorio mansion stood just a few streets over—close enough for enemies, close enough to watch each other burn. Not my problem. I don't question Papa’s wars. My job’s to make sure his word becomes truth. The Alessandro mansion looked quieter than usual. Most of the servants had gone to the hall to help with the wedding. Only a few lingered around, moving like ghosts between the rooms. Then I saw her. A girl—young, pretty, her hair falling loose from a messy bun. She was folding linen near the window. For a second, I stopped walking. I knew that face. Maybe I’d see

Alessandro’s POV I had wanted to walk Amara home. But the Impatient voice of the La Camorra men demanding their drinks stopped me mid-step I turned. Damian met my eyes with that nervous look he wore whenever something had gone wrong — the kind that twisted a quiet panic into guilt. “What’s going on?” I asked, my tone already edged. “They’re not picking up, boss.” His voice was low, uncertain. “The supplier said he’d be here before the main toast, but now… nothing. I’ve tried calling three times.” “Keep trying.” “I did,” he said. “It’s not connecting anymore.” Something in me snapped. “Don’t fucking give me excuses, Damian,” I growled. “You know I can't fail La Camorra. You know what that means.” He lowered his head, jaw tight, saying nothing — and that silence cut deeper than any defense. “You think I can face Rebecca and Lorenzo like this? You think I can stand in front of them after humiliating them?” My voice broke slightly. “After ruining everything?” Damian’s ey

Rocco’s POV I shouldn’t have come. That was the first thought that crossed my mind when I saw Rebecca walk down the aisle, radiant and unbothered, as though the past between us had been erased. Maybe she invited me to gloat — or to remind me of what I had lost. Either way, I stayed. Because somewhere in this crowd, I knew Ginevra was here. And no matter how much time had passed, no one else could pull me into her orbit the way she did. The music, the laughter, and the clinking of glasses all felt distant. My attention stayed fixed on her. Ginevra, in that dress, her chin lifted just high enough to look untouchable. But I saw through it. I always did. The small tremor in her hand when she raised her glass, the tension in her smile when the guests whispered — she unraveling beneath the silk and pride. Then, as if fate still had unfinished business with us, a waiter approached me. He handed me a note. Only two words: Guest House. Now. And beneath it — her name. Ginevra.