Semua Bab The Devil In White : Bab 21 - Bab 28

Adrian’s POV The next day feels heavier than the one before it. It’s strange, how the weight of something unseen can settle over you like a fog. I wake to the sound of rain still falling — soft, rhythmic, as if the sky itself is grieving. But the house is different now. The shadows seem longer. The walls feel closer. The air is thick with something I can’t name. The phone call comes early. I’ve been waiting for it, but that doesn’t make it any easier. I don’t recognize the number. But the voice on the other end is familiar. “Adrian Moretti.” I don’t say anything at first. I’m still not sure what I’m supposed to feel, or whether I should feel anything at all. The voice doesn’t wait for an invitation. “You know who I am. We need to talk.” It’s not a request. I press my fingers to my temple, squeezing as though it might stop the pulse of pressure buildi

Adrian’s POV:The storm outside felt like it wanted to tear the whole damn world in half.Maybe it already did.Luca and I drove through the rain with the wipers fighting for their life. I kept thinking about Isabella—her face when I told her I doubted her. The way her eyes shook like she was holding something heavy inside. Something she didn’t want me to see.God, I hated myself for noticing.I shouldn’t care.Not anymore.Not when everything around me is falling to pieces.But I did.And that scared me more than any bullet.“Boss,” Luca said suddenly, snapping me out of my head. His voice was tight. “The trail ends here.”I looked up. We had arrived at one of the old eastern watch posts—my father’s territory back when he was younger and meaner. The whole place smelled like rust and ghosts.I stepped out of the car. The rain smacked my face, cold and sharp. Good. Maybe it would wake me up from whatever the hell was happening in my chest.Luca checked his gun. I checked mine.The buil

Adrian POV Yhe sense that I’m walking straight into the same darkness my father lived in… and never got out of. I move down the west wing corridor, hands in the pockets of my coat, pretending the walk is casual. It isn’t. I want eyes on Marco’s territory — the people he talks to, the ones he avoids, the ones who practically bow when he walks past. Men reveal everything when they think you’re not looking. The halls are quiet, but the quiet feels staged. A little too perfect. A little too clean. Halfway through the corridor, I stop. A man — one of Marco’s guards — slips a sealed envelope into Marco’s room. Quick, precise, practiced. Like he’s done it before. He turns to leave. He freezes when he sees me. His eyes widen just enough. “Boss,” he says, straightening instantly. I keep my hands in my pockets. “You look nervous.” He swallows. “Just delivering something.” “Open it.” His throat bobs. “It’s—it’s for Marco.” “And I’m telling you to open it.” For a second, he seems

I push Marco’s door open with one finger; it gives the smallest inch and swings inward without resistance. Of course—he lives like he’s untouchable and leaves his door unlocked in a house full of people who would slit his throat for half the crown. I step inside and close the door behind me just enough so it looks shut but won’t latch; if he comes back unexpectedly I want the sound to warn me before the smile. The room hits me with the usual mix—old wood and cigar smoke softened by expensive cologne—and nothing about it matters except what it hides. Marco keeps his place neat because neatness is control; neatness is a story he tells the world about himself, not something I came to admire.I go straight to the desk. The top drawer yields pens and envelopes and the kind of stationery that means people write letters they don’t intend to keep; I don’t waste time scanning receipts. The second drawer offers a photograph of him and my father with the practiced handshake and polite faces that