The first time someone breaks into your house, it's a message.
The second time, it's a war.
The letter sat in my hand like a curse.
The note, short and quiet.
See you soon. - T.
I hadn't heard him. Hadn't seen him.
And that was what frightened me the most.
I was never the kind of man who let ghosts walk through my halls unnoticed.
And yet, the phantom had played my piano.
I called Benedetta at 3:05 a.m.
"You need to stop waking me up with this shit," she groaned.
"He was here," I said.
A pause.
"Who?"
"The Russian."
She sat up. I could hear the rustle of sheets. "You're sure?"
"He left me a note. In my parlor. After playing Beethoven like a fucking love song."
Another silence.
Then, "I'll look into who this 'T' might be. Codename?"
"Twilight."
A laugh, dry and incredulous. "Dramatic."
"You don't say."
"I'll contact an old informant in Saint Petersburg," she said. "This level of infiltration… it's not standard espionage. This feels personal."
I hung up.
It was.
The next morning, I installed three new security systems, fired the night guard on shift, and ordered Marco to check every square inch of the estate. Still, the feeling lingered.
Like breath on the back of my neck.
Like silk fingers brushing the edge of my mind.
At noon, the call came from Tomas.
"There's been a killing."
"Where?"
"Via Vesuvio. Warehouse 13. One of our storage depots."
"Whose body?"
He hesitated. "Rafael."
My eyes narrowed.
Rafael wasn't just anyone. He was my cleaner. The man who knew where the bones were buried, because he was the one who buried them.
"And the body?"
"Skinned."
I felt my throat tighten. "Skinned?"
"Yes. From the face down. Hung upside down like some kind of.. ritual."
My fingers clenched around the phone. "Send photos."
He did.
I opened the file with a hand that didn't shake. It never did. Not even when my father used to beat me. Not even when I murdered my first man.
But this.
This was a message.
Not just brutality. Art. Intent.
On Rafael's chest, carved deep into the flesh, were three letters:
ADM
My initials.
In blood.
(Adriano D'amore)
By the time the sun set, every man in my organization knew: we were being hunted.
Not from outside.
But from within.
That was the genius of it. There had been no break-in. No cameras tripped. Rafael had entered the warehouse himself, trusting the locks, the routine, the system.
The Russian hadn't needed to break in.
He'd been let in.
That night, sleep didn't come.
I sat in my study, lights off, whiskey untouched.
And when I looked out the window, I saw a figure at the gate.
Still. Watching.
I didn't move.
Neither did he.
Five minutes passed. Ten. He didn't budge.
Then he raised a hand , a slow, gloved wave , and vanished into the fog.
The next day, a gift arrived at my office.
A black velvet box. No label. No courier.
Inside: a single bullet.
Carved with one word in Cyrillic.
Любовь
Lyubov.
Love.
"Why love?" Marco asked later, pacing beside me. "Why not fear? Or death?"
I didn't answer.
Because I knew.
This wasn't just a war.
It was a game.
And I'd just been chosen as a target of affection.
Or obsession.
Maybe both.
The next evening, I received a text on my encrypted phone.
Unknown number. Russian country code.
Tell me, Adriano. Do you ever dream of dying with someone's hands around your throat… and still wanting more?
- T.
I didn't respond.
I blocked the number.
He texted me again the next night. New number.
Don't run. I haven't touched you yet.
- T.
By the end of the week, paranoia had spread like rot.
My men questioned every order. Tomas began skipping meetings. Sandro started drinking again. Even Marco was quieter than usual.
A kingdom is only as loyal as its fear is greater than its ambition.
And my fear…
…was slowly turning into something else.
That night, I had a dream.
I was walking through the fog.
Barefoot. Bleeding.
And someone followed me.
Close. Silent.
He never touched me.
But I could feel his breath against the back of my neck.
When I turned, I woke up.
Alone. Sheets cold. Heart racing.
And on my nightstand…
A rose.
Fresh. Crimson.
Thorned.