The penthouse looked different in daylight—less like a home, more like a fortress. Walls of glass framed the skyline like paintings, but inside, everything was cold marble, sharp corners, and silence that whispered.
Eva followed the servant through a private hallway she hadn't explored yet. The house was a labyrinth, and she wasn't foolish enough to believe it was designed for comfort.
No—this place was meant to disorient. To intimidate.
And it was working.
They stopped before a set of heavy double doors.
"Mr. Moretti is inside," the woman said before leaving.
Eva hesitated, then pushed the door open.
Damian stood by the window, sleeves rolled up, tie discarded, phone pressed to his ear. He didn't turn when she stepped in.
"I said clean it up," he said coolly. "I don't care if he was a judge—if he's talking, he's bleeding. Handle it."
Click.
He turned to her, face unreadable. "You're early."
"You told me not to be late."
His lips curved faintly. "And you listen to instructions. That's rare."
He walked to the bar cart and poured a drink, the scent of dark liquor curling into the air. "How was your little chat with Aunt Celeste?"
"She asked me about loyalty."
"And you?"
"I told her it depends who it's owed to."
Damian handed her a glass she didn't ask for. "Smart answer."
"I'm not here to impress your family."
"No," he said, studying her. "You're here for revenge."
The glass nearly slipped from her fingers.
"What did you say?"
He stepped closer, eyes like storm clouds. "You think I don't know who you are, Eva Romano? You think I married a stranger?"
Her heart slammed against her ribs. "Then why—"
"Because I'm not afraid of ghosts," he said darkly. "And because I wanted to see what vengeance looks like in a wedding dress."
Silence wrapped around them like smoke.
Eva lifted her chin. "Did you kill my sister?"
Damian didn't flinch.
But he didn't answer either.
---
Later that night, Eva couldn't sleep.
Not after what he'd said—not after the way he'd looked at her. Like he knew everything. Like her secrets weren't secrets at all.
She slipped out of bed and padded barefoot down the hall. Past the gallery of Moretti portraits, past the mirrored room with no light switch. She reached the east wing. Locked.
Her keycard wouldn't work.
But a soft click echoed down the corridor behind her.
Damian stood at the far end, backlit by moonlight. "Looking for something?"
She turned slowly. "Fresh air."
"That hallway leads to the archive. No windows. Just files."
"I'm a curious wife."
He walked toward her, slow and deliberate.
"So was Isabella."
The blood drained from Eva's face. "You knew her."
"I know everyone who's ever tried to destroy this family," he said.
"Then you know why I'm here."
"Do I?" He stopped inches away. "You want justice. Or closure. Or blood. But what happens when none of it feels the way you thought it would?"
"I guess I'll cross that bridge when I burn it."
His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "Careful, Eva. You might like the fire more than you think."
He leaned in, and for a terrifying second, she thought he might kiss her.
But instead, he whispered—
"The key to the archive is in the study. Third drawer. Bottom."
And then he walked away.
---
Eva waited until the house was dead quiet.
She found the drawer, just like he said. And inside was a single key.
The archive room was freezing. Floor-to-ceiling shelves, black file boxes, a bank of security footage monitors looping footage from months past.
She moved quickly, fingers skimming labels.
One name made her stop.
Romano, Isabella – Case Alpha-19.
Her heart stuttered.
She pulled the box and opened it.
Inside: a flash drive, photographs, and a typed report stamped CONFIDENTIAL.
She clicked on the first image.
It wasn't her sister.
It was her.
Standing outside a cafe. Walking with friends. Sitting at a funeral.
Labeled: Eva Romano – Observation Notes.
Every
breath she took felt like glass.
Her sister hadn't just died in a war.
She'd dragged Eva into it long before the first shot was fired.