POV: Marco
The scream comes first.
It cuts through the afternoon like a blade, sharp enough that every instinct in my body snaps awake before my mind catches up. I’m halfway across the courtyard of the Venetti estate when I see one of my guards stumble backward, hands clutching his side, blood already spreading dark and fast through his fingers.
“Down!” someone shouts.
The guard collapses to his knees, then to the stone, his breath coming out in wet, broken gasps. For a split second, everything freezes—the fountains still running, the flags above the estate lifting lazily in the breeze, the illusion of control hanging in the air like it always does here.
Then chaos erupts.
Men draw weapons. Orders are barked. Boots pound against stone. I’m moving before anyone can stop me, Luca at my side, his hand briefly catching my arm before letting go when he realizes I won’t slow down.
“Secure the perimeter,” I snap. “Now.”
I kneel beside the guard, my fingers already slick with blood as I press against the wound, trying to assess the damage. Knife. Clean entry. No gunshot. No spray. Whoever did this wanted him alive long enough to be found.
“Who did this?” I demand.
The guard’s eyes flutter, unfocused, panic shining through the pain. “Didn’t… see him,” he rasps. “Came from behind.”
“Medic!” Luca shouts.
The sound of sirens begins to rise in the distance as my men move with drilled precision, locking down the grounds. I scan the surrounding walls, the trees beyond the estate, every shadow suddenly suspect.
This wasn’t a random act.
This was a message.
They load the guard onto a stretcher moments later, his blood smeared across my hands and cuffs. I stand slowly, my jaw clenched so tight it aches.
“Show me everything,” I tell Luca.
He nods, already pulling up feeds from the estate cameras on his tablet. We move into the security room, the walls lined with screens showing every angle of my property.
“Camera seven caught movement,” Luca says. “Just before the attack.”
The footage plays.
A figure in dark clothing moves swiftly along the edge of the courtyard, too fast for facial recognition, but deliberate. Professional. The knife flashes once. Then the figure is gone, disappearing into a blind spot near the service gate.
My hands curl into fists.
“Zoom,” I order.
Luca does.
The image sharpens just enough to catch the glint of metal in the attacker’s hand as he strikes.
Something about the blade makes my stomach drop.
“Pause,” I say.
The screen freezes.
The knife is unmistakable.
Long. Slim. Curved just slightly at the hilt. The handle carved with a subtle, familiar pattern—one I haven’t seen in years but recognize instantly.
Vincent Rossi’s signature.
My vision goes red.
“That son of a bitch,” I growl.
Luca stiffens beside me. “Marco—”
“He left his mark on purpose,” I snap. “That’s his style. Always has been.”
Luca shakes his head. “No. That’s exactly why this doesn’t make sense.”
I round on him. “You think Vincent Rossi wouldn’t stab one of my men?”
“I think Vincent Rossi wouldn’t be this obvious,” Luca replies evenly. “He’s ruthless, not stupid.”
I pace the room, adrenaline roaring in my ears. “He’s jealous. He’s always been. And now Carmen’s hiding behind his walls—”
“Marco,” Luca interrupts, stepping into my path. “Listen to yourself.”
“She leaves me,” I continue, barely hearing him, the words spilling out sharp and uncontrolled. “She runs straight into the arms of my oldest enemy, and suddenly my men start getting stabbed with his knives?”
“Too clean,” Luca insists. “Too theatrical.”
I slam my palm against the table. “You think this is a coincidence?”
“I think someone wants you to think it’s Vincent,” he says. “Someone who benefits from you attacking him.”
The thought flickers at the edge of my mind.
And I shove it away.
“Carmen wouldn’t let this happen,” I say harshly.
Luca’s gaze softens. “No. She wouldn’t.”
The words twist something deep in my chest—but anger is louder.
“She’s with him,” I say. “Whether she means to be or not.”
“That doesn’t mean she’s part of this,” Luca argues. “And it doesn’t mean Vincent ordered it.”
I turn back to the screen, staring at the frozen image of the knife.
Vincent Rossi doesn’t miss.
If he wanted one of my men dead, there wouldn’t be a scream. There wouldn’t be witnesses. There wouldn’t be a signature left behind like a calling card.
I know this.
And yet—
My chest tightens painfully.
“You’re asking me to ignore evidence,” I say.
“I’m asking you to question it,” Luca replies. “Just like you’ve started questioning Arianna.”
The name sparks something ugly in me.
“Don’t,” I warn.
Luca sighs. “Marco, please. This feels like a trap.”
“Everything feels like a trap lately,” I snap. “That doesn’t mean we stop moving.”
I pull out my phone, my decision crystallizing with dangerous clarity. “Mobilize,” I tell my men. “Full readiness. I want eyes on Vincent Rossi and his estate immediately.”
Luca steps closer, lowering his voice. “If you move against him without proof—”
“This is proof,” I cut in.
“It’s staged proof,” Luca insists. “And you know it.”
I look at him, really look at him, at the loyalty etched into every line of his face. “You’re letting your sympathy cloud your judgment.”
“And you’re letting your anger do the same,” he shoots back.
For a moment, we stand there, the tension between us sharp enough to draw blood.
“I won’t let him touch my family,” I say finally.
Luca exhales slowly. “And if this destroys everything?”
“I’ll deal with that later,” I reply.
***
By nightfall, the estate is locked down tighter than I can ever remember it being.
Men move quietly through the halls, weapons close at hand. The wounded guard is stable, barely, but the damage has been done. Fear has crept into places it hasn’t touched in years.
I stand alone on the balcony overlooking the grounds, the cool night air doing nothing to calm the fire in my veins. Every thought circles back to the same image.
That knife.
Vincent Rossi’s knife.
And Carmen—somewhere behind his walls, whether willingly or not.
I don’t know what hurts more: the idea that Vincent would move against me so openly, or the thought that Carmen might be close enough to see it and say nothing.
My phone buzzes with updates. Surveillance. Movements. Whispers.
Luca approaches quietly, stopping a few feet away. “It’s not too late to slow this down,” he says one last time.
I don’t turn around. “If I hesitate now, I look weak.”
“You look human,” he replies.
I close my eyes briefly.
Humanity has never protected anyone in this world.
“Prepare the men,” I say. “We move at dawn.”
Luca doesn’t argue again.
When he leaves, I remain where I am, staring into the darkness beyond the estate walls, my thoughts heavy and volatile.
Something is wrong. Deeply wrong. I can feel it—like standing on ground that looks solid until it gives way beneath your feet.
But anger is easier than doubt.
Jealousy is easier than guilt.
And if Vincent Rossi wants a war—Then I’ll give him one.
Even if a quiet voice inside me is already screaming that I’m walking straight into someone else’s design.