Chapter 3
1364 Words
The ballroom that once shimmered like a dream now looked like a battlefield dressed in gold.
Glass crunched beneath every step. Blood streaked across marble floors once meant for waltzes.
And the music, the violins that had once soared, lay dead in silence.
The flashing lights of police and ambulances spilled through the shattered windows, painting the chaos in red and blue. Reporters huddled outside the cordoned entrance, their voices muffled under the hum of power and panic.
But inside, Isabella Romano felt nothing.
No fear.
No shock.
Just a coldness that spread from her chest like ink in water.
One of her father’s soldiers lay covered on the floor, a sheet over his still body, darkened by the stain seeping through. Marco, the Moretti brother, had survived, but it was the Romanos who hadn’t walked away.
And the whispers were already circling.
“Adriano Moretti had a gun.”
“He was closest to the Romano soldier.”
“I saw the flash from his side.”
Lies spread faster than the truth. And Isabella knew better than to believe anything she heard, yet when she turned, she saw it.
Adriano stood near the terrace doors, a gun dangling loosely from his hand. His expression was unreadable. His eyes locked straight on hers.
The world tilted.
For a second, all sound dropped away. It was just the two of them, divided by smoke and blood and suspicion.
He no longer looked like a savior.
He looked like an executioner.
A tremor ran through her fingers. She gripped her clutch tighter, forcing her voice to steady. “You had a weapon,” she said, stepping closer, her heels silent on the marble.
Adriano didn’t flinch. “So did every guard in this room.”
“But not every guard aimed at my father’s man.”
His gaze darkened, just slightly. “Careful, princess. You’re accusing the wrong devil.”
“I saw it.” Her voice shook, but she didn’t stop. “You…”
He took a step forward, and the air shifted. “What did you see?”
The question wasn’t a challenge. It was quiet. Dangerous.
And she realized he was studying her, measuring how much she knew, how far she’d go.
“I saw your gun,” she whispered.
Adriano’s jaw flexed. The silence stretched between them until it hurt. Then he slipped the weapon back into his jacket with a motion too practiced to be casual.
“Then maybe,” he murmured, “you should ask yourself why I didn’t shoot you instead.”
The words landed like a slap.
Before she could respond, the police moved in, detectives in dark suits and latex gloves, barking orders. They pulled her aside, asked questions, wrote notes she knew were useless. She said the same line over and over:
“I didn’t see the shooter’s face.”
But the truth gnawed at her. Because she had seen something, and it was the glint of Adriano’s gun, gleaming beneath the ballroom lights.
When she finally stepped outside, dawn had begun to bleed into the sky. The air smelled of smoke and perfume, mixed with the faint sweetness of ruined roses.
Her father’s car waited at the curb, doors open, guards posted. He was already inside, barking into his phone.
She hesitated, glancing back. Adriano was standing by the shattered doorway, watching her again. This time, no mask. No pretense.
Just a silent war brewing in the space between them.
She got into the car, the door shutting like a seal over her thoughts.
Her father didn’t look at her when he spoke. “One of ours is dead. They’ll answer for it.”
She swallowed. “We don’t know who fired.”
He turned, eyes blazing. “I know enough.”
“Father”
“You were there. You saw how Adriano moved, how he hid behind that mask. He’s his father’s son. Cold-blooded.”
“But Adriano saved me.”
That name, spoken aloud, seemed to ignite her father’s temper. “He saved himself. Don’t confuse survival with mercy.”
She turned away, watching the city blur past the tinted glass. But the image refused to leave her mind. Adriano’s eyes, his voice, the steady calm as chaos erupted around him.
The Romano estate was built to intimidate, gates taller than dreams, marble cold enough to echo every secret it hid. By sunrise, the place buzzed with whispers.
A Romano soldier was killed.
A deal, broken.
A daughter, shaken.
Isabella sat in her father’s study, staring at the headlines already spreading online:
“Peace Gala Ends in Blood.”
“Romano Soldier Killed Amid Mafia Truce.”
“Witnesses Claim Moretti Involvement.”
Her father stood by the window, speaking to his consigliere.
“They’ll deny it, of course,” Vincenzo said, voice slick with certainty. “But we strike before they can spin it. Hit the Morettis’ warehouse. Send a message.”
Don Romano nodded. “Do it quietly. And make sure the press believes it was self-defense.”
Isabella’s stomach turned. “You’ll start another war.”
Her father didn’t glance at her. “War never ended, figlia mia. We just dressed it in tuxedos.”
She rose, anger sharpening her grief. “Then what was last night for? The peace? The truce?”
He faced her finally, his expression softening, not from kindness, but calculation. “It was theatre. And you played your part well.”
Her throat tightened. “My part?”
“Dancing with the Moretti boy. Making him believe we trust him. You did well.”
She felt sick. “You used me.”
He smiled thinly. “We use everyone in this world, Isabella. Better to be the one holding the strings than the one dangling from them.”
Her fingers trembled at her sides. “Adriano is not his father.”
“Then he’s worse,” her father said. “Because he looks at you the way I used to look at his mother.”
She froze. “You knew her?”
He turned away, ending the conversation. “Stay inside today. There’ll be blood before sundown.”
Hours later, she couldn’t stand the silence. The mansion’s hallways felt like tombs, polished, perfect, suffocating.
She slipped out the side door, ignoring the guards’ protests, and crossed the garden toward the empty terrace. The city stretched beyond the walls, glittering in the morning sun. Somewhere out there, Adriano was plotting his next move.
Her phone buzzed. Unknown number again.
Unknown: “You shouldn’t be alone.”
Her pulse spiked. She typed fast. Who are you?
Unknown: “You already know.”
She stared at the words, fingers trembling. The memory of Adriano’s voice returned, low, dangerous, protective.
She should delete the message. Report it. Ignore it.
Instead, she typed back. Did you kill him?
Minutes passed before the dots appeared.
Adriano: “No.”
Adriano: “But the man who did, is closer than you think.”
Her breath caught. You expect me to believe you?
Adriano: “No. I expect you to survive long enough to find out.”
Then another message: a photo. Blurry. Taken at night.
It showed a figure in a white jacket, Vincenzo, her father’s advisor, handing something to a masked man near the terrace doors.
The ground seemed to shift beneath her.
Her mind replayed the moment she saw that same white jacket before the gunshot. Her father’s words echoed: We use everyone in this world.
She stared at the image until her vision began to blur.
If Vincenzo had orchestrated the shooting, it wasn’t just betrayal. It was war from within.
And her family would burn for it.
Her phone buzzed one last time.
Adriano: “They’ll pin it on me. Don’t let them.”
She looked out over the skyline, fury rising through the grief. “If you’re lying,” she whispered to the wind, “I’ll find you. And I’ll end you myself.”
The city didn’t answer.
But somewhere out there, she swore she could feel his eyes on her again, watching, waiting, knowing that in their world, revenge was just another form of love.
- Writer
