The door creaked again.
Aria spun, heart hammering in her chest—but the corridor outside was empty. Just shadows and silence.
She stared for a beat too long, then stepped backward, back into the server room. The screens still glowed.
The hooded figure in the bedroom feed was gone.
Gone.
Her stomach twisted.
Was it live footage—or a recording meant to rattle her? Was she being warned? Or hunted?
She turned to the desk and scanned the labeled hard drives. If Matteo wasn't here, she'd do it herself.
A voice broke the silence behind her.
"You shouldn't be down here."
Aria whipped around.
Talon.
Leaning casually in the doorway, arms crossed, that cold smirk playing at the corner of his lips.
"And yet here I am," she replied, refusing to show fear.
He stepped into the room, slow and measured. "Luciano wouldn't like this."
"Then maybe Luciano should ask himself why his wife has to sneak into his basement just to feel safe."
Talon glanced at the live feeds. "Funny place to go for safety."
"I saw someone," she said. "Watching me."
"Plenty of eyes in this house."
"I'm not talking about cameras."
He raised an eyebrow. "Paranoia doesn't suit you, Princess."
Aria stepped forward, eyes blazing. "Neither does betrayal."
For the first time, something flickered in Talon's gaze—just for a second. A crack.
Then it vanished.
"You're playing a dangerous game."
"And you think I scare easy?"
He tilted his head, smile sharpening. "No. That's what makes you dangerous."
Then he left.
No threats. No lies.
Just a promise.
⸻
By morning, Matteo was still missing.
No one knew where he went. Or claimed not to.
Luciano didn't seem to care—brushed it off as a personal emergency. But Aria saw the tightening of his jaw when she mentioned his name. He was hiding something.
Or worse—he already knew.
She stopped playing nice after that.
She started asking questions.
To the cook. The drivers. The guards. She acted casual, charming. Played the bored wife. But every word she pulled added another string to the web.
And at the center of it, one name kept slipping through like a ghost:
Enzo.
Not on payroll. Not in security. But everyone knew the name.
And no one dared say much about him.
⸻
Two nights later, she found a red envelope on her pillow.
No handwriting. No signature.
Inside: a photograph.
Her.
Standing in the graveyard at her brother's funeral.
In the corner of the frame—barely visible—a hand held a phone. Recording.
And in the reflection of a tombstone, a figure stood.
Hooded.
Watching.
That wasn't a warning anymore.
It was ownership.
She wasn't just being observed.
She was being marked.
⸻
Luciano was sitting in his office when she stormed in.
"I need to speak with you. Alone."
He looked up from his desk, those cold eyes briefly softening at the sight of her—until he saw the photo in her hand.
"What is this?"
He reached for it. She pulled it back.
"Tell me who Enzo is."
He blinked.
Then his expression shifted into something unreadable. "Who told you that name?"
"No one. I put the pieces together myself."
A long silence passed.
Then, in a voice like gravel, he said, "Enzo used to be my shadow. I sent him to watch your father."
Aria's stomach flipped.
"My father?"
"He was leaking information. About our alliances. About your brother."
The photo trembled in her fingers.
"You think my father got Luca killed?"
"I think," Luciano said, standing slowly, "that you need to stop looking backward and start protecting yourself."
"Is that a threat?"
"No," he said quietly. "It's a reality."
She stepped forward. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because some truths burn everything they touch."
⸻
That night, she sat alone on the balcony, staring out over the city.
The truth wasn't just close.
It was crawling beneath her skin.
Someone inside this house had been spying on her. Not just for power—but for control. And Luciano knew more than he was saying.
She lit the photo on fire.
Let it curl into ash in her palm.
Whatever game Enzo was playing—it wasn't over.
And neither was hers.
⸻
As she turned to go back inside, something caught her eye.
A small blinking light at the base of the balcony railing.
She bent down, heart thudding.
Another camera.
Hidden in the stone.
Recording.
And it was live.