They call me many things. Some whisper my name like a prayer; others curse it like a plague. But me? I go by one thing only—Adrian Romano.
From the moment I took my first breath, my life was carved in blood. Born into the most feared mafia family in Italy—the Romanos—I was never meant for softness. My world was violence, and my lullabies were gunshots and broken promises. My father, Luca Romano, groomed me to take over before I could even ride a bicycle. By the age of ten, I could dismantle a pistol with my eyes closed and recite our family enemies like bedtime stories.
But none of that mattered the day I saw her.
That girl with fire in her eyes and a storm brewing in her soul. Isabella Moretti. Daughter of our sworn enemy. She shouldn't have even existed in my world—let alone haunted it. But she did. From the shadows of that church courtyard, when we were both just kids. Our parents were inside pretending to negotiate peace, and we—two enemies by blood—were sitting on opposite sides of a marble fountain, our eyes locked like we already knew our story was going to be anything but ordinary.
Years have passed since then. Now, at twenty-five, I run the Romano empire. My name brings silence to rooms, fear to enemies, and obedience to allies. But for all the power I wield, nothing—nothing—has prepared me for her return.
It began two weeks ago.
I received intel from one of my men in Sicily that the Morettis were expanding again, sniffing around territories they had no right entering. I should've shut it down immediately, crushed the rebellion before it became a threat. But then came the second part of the report.
"Boss," Matteo had said, his voice taut with caution, "the girl's back."
"What girl?"
"Isabella."
I didn't react outwardly. Years of mastering control kept my expression flat, but inside, everything shifted. Memories I'd buried under layers of blood and duty clawed their way to the surface.
I told Matteo to monitor, not engage.
But curiosity, that dangerous poison, had already sunk in. I needed to see her.
It happened at a charity gala thrown by the Bertoni family—neutral ground. I had no reason to be there except one. I knew she would be. Word had spread quickly. The prodigal daughter of the Morettis had returned from wherever the hell she'd been hiding. Some said Paris. Others whispered Colombia. I didn't care. All I knew was that she was here.
And when she walked in, time stopped.
She was no longer the scrappy girl with scraped knees and a defiant scowl. No—she was a woman now. Elegant. Commanding. Her figure hugged by a crimson dress that bled confidence. But it wasn't the beauty that shook me—it was her eyes.
Blue like the ocean before a storm.
She looked straight at me. No fear. No hesitation. Just fire.
"Adrian Romano," she said smoothly when I approached her. "Still alive, I see."
"Isabella Moretti," I replied. "Still arrogant, I see."
We danced. Not literally, not yet. But the words between us—they waltzed with danger. There was no room for old innocence here. Only tension thick enough to cut with a knife.
"You're trespassing in territories you don't belong," I told her, my hand barely grazing her arm as we moved through the crowd.
She smiled. "Are you afraid I'll take what's yours?"
I leaned closer. "You wouldn't be the first to try."
And she tilted her head. "But I'll be the first to succeed."
Madonna.
The audacity.
That night, I didn't sleep. Her voice echoed in my mind, every word a challenge, every glance a warcry. She was fire. And I was gasoline.
But this isn't a love story. Not yet.
This is a story of bloodlines, betrayal, and buried truths.
Because what Isabella doesn't know is that our history is darker than she remembers.
And what I don't know… is that she's come back not just to challenge me—but to destroy everything I've built.
---
The Romano estate isn't just a mansion; it's a fortress. Walls thick with secrets, halls lined with ancestors' portraits who bled for the empire I inherited. I walk these halls with the weight of centuries on my shoulders. But tonight, as I stare at the city lights beyond my window, it's not power or loyalty that keeps me awake—it's her.
Isabella Moretti.
She's a ghost that never left.
I remember our last conversation as children, before hatred hardened between our families. She was defiant, refusing to bow to the rules we were born into. I was stubborn and wild, but she had a fire that rivaled mine.
Now, that fire threatens to consume us both.
Two days after the gala, she showed up at one of my nightclubs, Nero, disguised by the crowd but not by me. She moved like a predator, every step deliberate. My men watched her from the shadows, tense and ready, but I held them back. This was personal.
I approached her, stepping into the haze of smoke and flashing lights.
"Why are you here, Isabella?" I asked quietly, keeping my voice low so only she could hear.
Her eyes glinted with mischief and something darker. "I'm here to remind you that the Morettis are not done. We're coming for what's ours."
"And what's that?" I challenged.
She smiled, lips curling into something dangerous. "Everything."
The tension between us was electric, a storm waiting to break. I wanted to reach out, to touch her and pull her into my world, but I knew better. This was a game of survival, and one wrong move could be the end.
She left that night, disappearing into the city's shadows like a phantom.
---
The days that followed were filled with whispers of war. Deals made in back rooms, threats exchanged in hushed tones, and alliances forged with blood. But all I could think about was Isabella.
I found myself standing outside her family's compound in Naples, watching the guards patrol with hawk eyes. I wasn't here to start a fight. No, I needed answers.
Why was she really back?
What was she planning?
I slipped through the alleys, careful to avoid the cameras. Inside, the mansion was a fortress like mine—opulent and intimidating.
And there she was.
Isabella, standing by the grand window, her silhouette framed by moonlight.
She turned as I entered, eyes narrowing.
"I should have expected you," she said.
"I'm not here to fight," I told her, stepping closer.
She laughed, a sound that echoed like a challenge.
"Then why come?" she asked.
"Because you're a puzzle I can't stop trying to solve."
Her eyes softened for a moment, but only for a moment.
"Adrian," she whispered. "If you knew the truth, you wouldn't be so eager."
"What truth?"
She hesitated, then took a deep breath.
"There's more to our families' feud than you know. Secrets buried deep. Lies told to keep us apart."
I felt the weight of her words like a punch.
"Tell me," I demanded.
She looked away, conflicted.
"Not yet. But soon."
Before I could say more, the sound of footsteps broke the moment. Guards stormed in, weapons drawn.
"We don't want trouble," I said, hands raised.
Isabella stepped forward, calm and commanding.
"Lower your weapons," she ordered.
The guards obeyed reluctantly.
"We have much to discuss," she said, eyes locking with mine.
---
That night, as I left the Moretti compound, my mind was a battlefield of questions and doubt. Isabella was no longer just an enemy or a challenge. She was a key to a past I had tried to forget and a future I wasn't sure I wanted.
Back at Nero, my right hand, Matteo, approached.
"You're playing a dangerous game, boss."
"I know."
"But she's dangerous too."
"I don't care."
He shook his head.
"You always say that. But this time, it might cost you everything."
Maybe he was right.
But I wasn't about to back down.
Not when the woman I was supposed to hate was the one who had my heart tangled in chains I couldn't break.
---
The war was coming.
And the question was:
Would it burn us—or remake us?