All Chapters of OWNED BY THE ENEMY: His Dark Claim: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

Amara’s POV Being able to make it to the event before the La Camorra could eat Alessandro alive was a small victory that felt almost unreal after everything that had unfolded. The sound of glass clinking and voices rising in laughter returned to the hall, but the tension beneath it all was unmistakable — a tension I could almost taste. It hummed through the chandeliers, velvet drapes, and polished silverware. The kind that lingers after chaos has been barely contained. From where I stood, I saw Alessandro’s shoulders relax in quiet relief as the drinks were finally distributed. The faintest exhale left his chest — he probably didn't realize I’d noticed. And then my gaze caught Don Vittorio’s face — stiff, rigid, his mouth slightly parted as if the air had been punched out of him. He hadn't expected the tide to turn so quickly. His smugness had vanished, replaced with the hollow silence of a man watching his own plans collapse. And that, for once, made me smile. But

Alessandro’s POV One of the servants told Damian the sound was coming from outside, even after he had tried to cut the connection in the hall, but the noise only grew louder. The servants directed us toward the guest house, and I watched as everyone followed behind — nearly all the guests, and most of all, the La Camorra. Don Vittorio wasn’t left behind either; he looked eager, almost delighted, as if he could smell blood in the air. Another public failure for Alessandro Vitale — he wouldn’t miss that for the world. At first, I was stunned when someone said the sound came from the guest house. That shouldn’t have been possible — the keys were with Damian. He hadn’t given them out yet, since he was supposed to hand them over after the wedding to guests staying overnight. But the wedding wasn’t over, and still, the moans persisted, pulsing through the air like something alive. “Open it,” I told Damian. My voice was calm, but inside, everything was on fire. The corridor felt too

Amara’s POV The noise came from the guest house just outside the hall. I didn't think twice before following Alessandro and Damian toward it — the murmurs, the gasps, the faint flicker of disbelief in the air pulling me along like a thread. And then I saw it. Ginevra — moving under another man, her skin flushed, her moans echoing against the thin walls. Not just me. Everyone saw it. La Camorra stood frozen at the doorway, their shock painted across every face. Alessandro moved first. His voice was sharp, cold. “What the hell are you doing, Ginevra?” But she stammered, voice trembling as she grabbed the blanket. “—I-I don't know how I got here. Someone tricked me. I swear I didn’t—” An excuse. A weak, desperate one. I didn't know Ginevra well, but I’d heard the whispers — the story about Rebecca, and how she once played the victim after doing something cruel. And now, history was repeating itself. Rebecca’s slap cracked through the room before anyone could blink. It wasn

Ginevra’s POV Alessandro’s shout tore through the air like a slap. For a second, I didn’t understand what I was hearing—then the cold rush of awareness hit me. The room spun, the air thick with whispers and disbelief. I looked down and saw myself—naked. Rocco lay beside me, tangled in the sheets, his expression frozen somewhere between shock and shame. “What… what is happening?” My voice came out broken, foreign to my ears. The last thing I remembered was someone handing me a drink—an amber liquid that smelled faintly of citrus and homey—and a shadow moving behind him. The darkness. The sound of footsteps pulled me back. Alessandro stood in the doorway, Damian just behind him, their faces carved in disbelief. The entire La Camorra was there, staring. I grabbed the blanket and wrapped it around myself, shaking. Rocco fumbled to cover himself with the remaining fabric, his hands trembling. “I didn’t—” I began, but Alessandro cut me off with a look that silenced me.

Amara’s POV The hall was almost silent now. The last guests had gone, and the laughter that once filled the air had dissolved into distant echoes. Petals clung to the floor, wilted beneath the weight of spilled champagne, and a soft, tired scent of roses and smoke lingered. I stood still for a while, watching the servants begin tidying the celebration's wreckage. Their movements were slow, exhausted — the kind of weariness that follows joy stretched too thin. “Leave it,” I told them quietly. “You can clean in the morning. It's been a long day. Rest.” Damian looked uncertain, glancing at Alessandro for approval. But Alessandro only gave a small nod, and Damian bowed slightly before leading the others away. The sound of retreating footsteps left us alone in the vastness of the hall — just Alessandro and me, surrounded by the ghosts of the night. The hall felt haunted by laughter that wasn't there anymore. Perfume and spilled wine clung to the air — reminders of a joy that had tur