//HEAVEN'S POV//
The messages don't stop.
Each one cuts sharper, darker.
Unknown Number:Graves aren't empty. They're waiting. Just like he made me wait.
I stare at the words until they blur. I don't know if it's sweat in my palms or blood in my veins, but my body feels wired — like prey waiting for the predator to strike.
When Damien enters, I shove the phone away. But he doesn't miss the way my shoulders lock.
"Who," he says, flat and dangerous.
My silence is an answer. He steps closer, his height swallowing mine, steel-grey eyes drilling through me. "You don't lie well, A mè rovina." His thumb brushes my chin, forcing my gaze to stay tethered to his. "Secrets will eat you alive faster than your enemies."
He's right. But I can't bring myself to give him the messages. Not yet.
//DAMIEN'S POV//
She's hiding something. I can taste it in the way her amber eyes flicker — golden flecks flashing with fear she can't disguise.
But I've waited for this moment.
I pull her into my office. The drawer unlocks with a click, and I lay the folder open. She's seen these files before — but not all of them. Not what I held back.
Her eyes dart over the documents. Contracts written in blood. Names that carry the weight of wars.
And then I place it down. The photograph. The one she already knows, already fears. Her mother. Her as a child. The man with the same amber eyes.
Her hands tremble. "You already showed me this—"
"I showed you the face," I cut in, my voice low. "Not the name."
Her breath stalls.
"This man," I continue, "is Salvatore Vitale. Your father's oldest enemy. The man he betrayed — and the man who wanted you dead before you were even born."
//HEAVEN'S POV//
Salvatore Vitale.
The name coils in my mind like poison.
I trace the photograph with my thumb, but it burns to touch it. His eyes — my eyes — stare back at me.
Damien's voice sharpens the blade. "Your father made enemies everywhere, but none like him. The threats, the grave, the rose—it isn't random. It's his signature."
My stomach knots. "You mean the messenger—"
"—isn't just someone following orders," Damien finishes. "It's him, or his blood. And he's close."
My chest caves in. Because suddenly, every message feels more personal.
Not just vengeance against my father.
Vengeance against me.
//DAMIEN'S POV//
She sways, like the ground isn't steady beneath her. And for once, I let myself touch her — steady her, claim her.
Her body fits against mine, trembling. My scar brushes her temple as I lean down. "Listen carefully, Heaven."
Her breath stutters against my chest.
"Whoever sends these messages doesn't want to scare you." My voice is a vow. "They want to own you through fear. But they don't know what you are to me."
Her head tilts back, amber fire catching mine.
"And what's that?" she whispers.
My mouth curves, sharp, cruel.
"My little ruin."
//HEAVEN'S POV//
The night is heavier after his revelation.
Salvatore Vitale.
The name beats in my head like a pulse I can't slow down. It changes everything — every look my father gave me, every unanswered question about his past.
Sleep doesn't come. Shadows crawl across the ceiling, and every vibration of my phone makes my heart leap. I don't look this time. I can't.
When dawn bleeds through the curtains, Damien is gone. Only the faint indent on the mattress betrays he was here at all.
But on the nightstand lies something else.
A single red thread.
Thin, delicate, coiled neatly into a circle.
A message.
My chest tightens. The symbol feels familiar, but I can't place it. My fingers brush the thread, and I swear the room feels colder.
//DAMIEN'S POV//
She doesn't hear me at first. Her head is bowed over the thread in her hands, shoulders tight, eyes wide in a way that makes my chest twist.
When she finally looks up, her lips part. "Damien, this… this means something, doesn't it?"
I take it from her, rolling it between my fingers. My jaw tightens. "A warning."
She waits, and I let the silence stretch before I answer.
"In Sicily, a red thread isn't just superstition. It means a life is tied to another — until one of them is cut."
Her eyes widen. She understands.
This isn't just about her father's sins anymore.
It's about her.
//HEAVEN'S POV//
My stomach lurches. "So I'm…"
"Marked." Damien's voice is sharp, unyielding. "Whoever left this was close enough to get inside this room. They want you to know nowhere is safe."
The air feels ripped out of my lungs.
But then he steps closer, invading my panic with his heat, his steel-grey eyes pinning me in place. "Except with me."
My pulse stutters.
"You don't run. You don't hide. You stay where I can see you. Because the moment you're out of reach—" His fingers curve under my chin, tilting me up. "…they'll cut the thread."
//DAMIEN'S POV//
She doesn't realize it yet.
Every threat they send, every symbol they leave—it doesn't just warn her. It provokes me.
And I don't play defense.
While she stares at the thread, I send a message of my own. A location. A time.
Tonight.
If Vitale's men want to toy with her mind, I'll burn theirs first.
And if I have to drag her through fire to understand she belongs to me…
So be it.
//HEAVEN'S POV//
The files are spread across the mahogany desk like an unspoken war. Damien left me here, thinking I wouldn't touch them. Thinking I'd be too afraid.
But fear doesn't stop me anymore—it sharpens me.
The first folder bears a name I don't recognize. A man, Italian, mid-40s. Notes scribbled in Sicilian. The words "debts paid in blood" repeat over and over, ink pressed hard into the paper like my father had been writing through rage.
Another file, thinner, almost hidden under the stack, makes my breath stall. My name. Heaven Moretti.
The room feels smaller.
Inside is a single page. No words. Just a photo. Me. Younger. Smiling, sunlight in my hair, taken without my knowledge. My stomach twists, bile rising. Whoever took it knew me before Damien did. Before now.
A name is scrawled beneath the photo. Not Damien's. Someone else's.
That's when I hear it—the faint click of the floorboard outside the office. Someone is there. Watching.
---
//DAMIEN'S POV//
Blood sprays warm across my cheek, metallic and sharp. The man crumples at my feet, his breath gurgling through the knife in his throat. I don't flinch. I never do.
They thought they could corner me. In my city. My rules.
Three of them came with guns, but I was faster. Smarter. One remains, trembling, his weapon on the ground, his hands lifted.
"Talk," I growl, my voice low, deadly.
He stammers in Sicilian, words tripping over fear: "Not me… not me… orders came from—"
He doesn't finish. A bullet tears through his skull before the name can leave his mouth. The sharp echo of the shot rings down the alley, silencing everything.
I don't need to look to know the sniper's message was meant for me. Someone higher doesn't want me to know who's pulling the strings.
But I will.
I always do.
---
//HEAVEN'S POV//
The floor creaks again, closer this time. My pulse thrashes against my ribs. Slowly, I close the folder with my name, sliding it beneath the pile. Whoever is out there—if it's Damien, he can't know what I've seen. Not yet.
The handle turns.
I straighten, masking the panic with practiced calm. But when the door opens, the silhouette is not Damien.
It's a man I've never seen before.
---
//DAMIEN'S POV//
By the time I reach the car, my knuckles are raw, blood drying across my suit jacket. I don't care.
Because as much as I fight, I know one truth—I can't protect Heaven from the shadows closing in.
Not when I'm not sure which shadows are mine.