Chapter 12 Amelia
No matter how hard I try to keep my eyes off him, I can’t. Luca D’Angelo moves across the room with that perfect, effortless charm, shaking hands, offering polite smiles, and pretending to be the world’s most important man.
I sip my wine again, hoping the liquid courage will dull the irritating pull in my chest, but it doesn’t. The pull refuses to let go. And it pisses me off. Why in the world would I feel anything—let alone some inexplicable pull—toward a pompous, rich asshole who’s so full of himself he probably thinks the universe revolves around him?
I down another glass. And then another. The wine warms me, a small, dangerous comfort. It blurs the edges of my irritation and heightens my awareness. I can feel him across the room, moving like a predator in a suit. Smooth. Polished. Dangerous in ways I don’t even want to admit.
I should be annoyed. I am annoyed. But instead, I feel this weird twinge of… curiosity. Lust, maybe. I hate that part. It makes me grit my teeth in frustration.
I glance around, looking for my parents. No sign of them. My brother, Mike? Gone. Probably off somewhere congratulating someone else, laughing at a joke I don’t care about. Typical.
The party starts to thin. The last clusters of guests whisper their goodbyes, and I mutter under my breath, “Finally.”
I lock eyes on Luca for a second, just to see if he’ll come over, say something, taunt me the way he did earlier. But he doesn’t. Not a single glance. And somehow, that disappoints me. It pisses me off even more because why the hell am I disappointed by him?
I shake my head, muttering, “Focus, Russo. Focus.” I remind myself that I’m an army captain. Not some dumb, flirted-with debutante who swoons at a smile.
I move through the thinning crowd, finally spotting Mike near the coat check. “Hey,” I say, keeping my voice even, trying not to let the lingering buzz in my head make me sound weak.
He looks up, smirks. “About time you made yourself useful, Captain.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m leaving. Finally.”
He chuckles, a little too smug for my liking, but I brush past him anyway. I find my parents near the exit. Isabella tries to chatter about the party—how the decorations were perfect, how the caviar was exquisite—but gets nowhere. General Russo doesn’t respond to anything beyond a curt nod. Typical. As usual, silence dominates the ride home.
The drive is quiet, the streets lit by dim street lamps reflecting in the wet pavement. My parents exchange no words, and neither do I. I’ve long since learned that arguing with my father about trivial things is pointless. I focus instead on the sound of the tires humming over the asphalt.
I get home and the relief hits me immediately. I can finally peel this damn dress off. The sequins are itchy, the corset is suffocating, and my heels have transformed my feet into tender, blistered messes.
“I swear I’ll never do this again,” I mutter to no one in particular, unzipping the back of the black dress.
The fabric falls to the floor. Freedom. Sweet, blissful freedom. I yank off my shoes, throwing them across the room. My feet ache like hell. My toes are cramped, my arches screaming at me.
I stumble into the bathroom, scrubbing the makeup from my face, trying to wash away the memory of the party. Of Luca. Of the way he laughed. Of the way he moved. The wine has made me lightheaded, and I realize I’ve been drinking more than I normally would. Not because I wanted to, but because he got under my skin, and I didn’t even notice until the buzz hit me.
I rinse off, shaking my head at myself. I’m not a drinker. Not at all. But he… he’s something else. Something I can’t put my finger on. And it irritates me even more.
I pull on my pajamas, something soft and loose, letting the silk glide over my skin. I collapse onto the bed, burying my face in the pillow. My feet throb, my head spins slightly, and my chest is a storm of irritation, confusion, and something else I refuse to name.
I try to sleep. I really do. But the images of him keep flashing in my mind. His perfect, arrogant smirk. The way he looked me over in the ballroom, measuring me, judging me. The arrogance. The confidence. It’s infuriating. And maddening. And… strangely magnetic.
I toss and turn. Pull the pillow over my head. Kick the blankets off. Nothing helps. My mind refuses to quiet.
Finally, I sit up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. My feet hit the carpet, cold against my skin. I groan in frustration. “God, why him?” I mutter.
And of course, my thoughts wander. Of course, they go straight to Luca. The cocky bastard. The one who thinks he can get under anyone’s skin. The one who doesn’t even know how close he is to… whatever this is.
I bite my lip, thinking of his sharp eyes, the faint smirk he always wears when he’s amused or annoyed. The pull he has over me—ridiculous. And yet undeniable.
I pace the room, trying to shake the dizzying combination of wine and frustration. I glance at the window. Outside, Verona sleeps. Quiet. Peaceful. Ordinary. But the city feels different now. It’s tainted with him, with the memory of his presence, his voice, the way he doesn’t even notice what he does to people.
I collapse back onto the bed. My arms cross over my chest. My mind races. The thought of tomorrow, of seeing him again, of watching him move through a world that bends to his whims… it keeps me awake.
I groan. I grab the pillow, hugging it close. My stomach twists. My chest tightens.
He’s infuriating. He’s maddening. And somehow… he’s unavoidable.
And somewhere deep in my chest, I know I haven’t even scratched the surface of him.
I close my eyes, and for a moment, I swear I can feel him there, somewhere in the dark. Watching. Waiting. And I know, with a sudden, sharp clarity, that I’m already caught in his game.
The sun hasn’t fully risen yet when I drive onto the base. I am not in the mood to ride alongside General Russo. I've had enough of him to last a lifetime. The asphalt glows with the early morning light, pale and cold. The quiet hum of engines and distant calls of guards make it feel alive, but only just. I like it better this way—early mornings, before the chaos begins. Before orders are shouted and egos clash. Before the endless grind of training.
I park my car and step out. The chill bites at my skin. I wrap my jacket tighter, though it does little to dull the ache in my feet from last night. I wince, remembering the heels and the tight black dress. Worst night ever.
I head toward the main building, boots clicking against the concrete. I ignore the stares, the small nods from those who recognize me. I’m not in the mood to be admired or fussed over. I’m in the mood to be efficient. To be sharp. To get back to work.
As I walk through the gate, I hear the familiar drawl of Giulia’s voice.
“Amelia Russo! Finally deciding to show your face.”
I turn to see her leaning casually against a wall, a clipboard in hand, her hair tied up in that perfect, irritating bun of hers. Her eyes glint with mischief. She’s been waiting for this. Always waiting for this.
I sigh. “Morning, Giulia.”
She smirks. “Care to explain where you’ve been? We all assumed you’d decided to disappear and join a circus or something.”
I roll my eyes. “Had some personal matters to attend to. Nothing circus-related.”
She narrows her eyes, clearly expecting more. I shake my head. “That’s all you’re getting. Don’t ask.”
Giulia huffs. “You’re impossible. I hope it was worth it.”
“It was,” I say carefully, leaving out the part about last night entirely. Luca D’Angelo doesn’t exist in my world. Not for her. I don’t need her teasing me about that cocky bastard.
She gives me a knowing look, but says nothing further. Instead, she taps her clipboard and starts heading toward the training grounds. “Come on. The recruits aren’t going to whip themselves into shape.”
I follow, silently, my boots crunching against the gravel. The early morning air smells faintly of dew and fuel, and I breathe it in. Familiar, grounding.
By the time I reach the training field, the recruits are already assembled. Nervous faces, stiff bodies, eager eyes. Some of them are new; some have been here a while. They all think they’re ready for everything.
I clear my throat. “Alright, everyone. Attention!”
They snap to formation, eyes forward, chins up. Good. Discipline matters. Respect matters. And I will make sure they learn it.
“Today,” I say, pacing in front of them, “we’re focusing on precision. Timing. Focus. Every movement counts. Every decision matters. You do it wrong, you fail yourself. You fail your team. And trust me, there’s no excuse for failure here.”
I demonstrate, moving through a set of drills, my body moving smoothly, each step precise, deliberate. They follow. Most stumble. Some hesitate. I correct them. I push them. I watch. I growl when someone is sloppy. I praise when someone gets it right.
Giulia lingers at the edge of the field, smirking every time someone messes up. She’s enjoying this. She’s always enjoying this. I ignore her.
Then I feel it—the shadow at the edge of my attention. Ashen.
He’s leaning against the fence, casual. Too casual. Hands in his pockets. Watching. Waiting. Expecting me to notice him.
I don’t.
“Captain Russo,” he calls, stepping closer.
I keep my focus on the recruits. “Yes, Ashen?” I say flatly, not turning.
He frowns, clearly trying to gauge my mood. “We need to talk.”
I shake my head. “I don’t have time for small talk, or big talk, or any talk that isn’t about training right now. Move along.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You don’t even look at me.”
“Exactly,” I reply. My voice is sharp, like a whip. “Keep walking.”
He hesitates, glances at me, then slowly backs off. I can feel the tension radiating off him. Good. That’s how it should be.
Once the recruits finish their drills, I march them through a series of exercises designed to exhaust and discipline them. My body moves alongside theirs, demonstrating techniques, correcting mistakes, and keeping them sharp. Sweat beads on my forehead, my muscles burn, and yet I push through. I don’t allow myself to think of last night. Not yet.
But of course, as soon as the field empties and I’m alone, my thoughts wander. Naturally.
I head back to my office, boots clicking against the floor. The city outside the base is distant, a muted haze behind reinforced walls. Safe. Secure. Professional. Normal.
I sit at my desk and pull up the files on Ren Moretti.
I’ve been at this since the breach. Since the night I managed to get a small piece of their wall down. That night, I thought I’d discovered a weakness. I thought I could finally break through and find something—anything—that would give me leverage.
Since then, nothing.
Not a footprint. Not a trace. Not even a hint of where he’s vulnerable. It’s infuriating. And it’s deliberate.
Who the fuck does Ren Moretti think he is, leaving a wall just weak enough to taunt me and then sealing it up completely? Does he think I’ll give up? Does he think I can’t see through it?
I tap my pen against the desk, impatient. I replay the events of that night in my mind. Every keystroke. Every security cam. Every little detail. I retrace my steps again and again. And each time, I hit a dead end.
It feels personal. Calculated. Like he’s daring me to try again. And that thought alone makes my teeth grind.
I scroll through the digital logs, the shipping records, the surveillance data. Nothing. Everything is perfect, seamless. Impossibly clean. And it’s all connected to him.
I lean back in my chair, exhaling slowly. My fingers drum on the desk. I think about him. Not about the wine, not about the party. Him. Ren. The man behind the mask.
I picture his smirk, his easy arrogance. The way he thinks he can toy with people, manipulate events, and still look good doing it. He probably sleeps in silk sheets, while the world bends at his feet. He probably doesn’t even know how much of a thorn he is in my side.
I make a mental note: tomorrow, I’ll try again. New angle. New approach. Something different. I can’t let him think he’s won. Not yet.
I hear a knock on the door.
“Captain Russo?” Giulia pokes her head in. Her smirk is back. “Lunch. You’re still staring at those screens like a lovesick puppy.”
I glance at her, dry. “I’m not a puppy, and this isn’t lunch. This is strategy.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “Sure. Strategy. You mean stalking him.”
I grit my teeth. “He’s not stalking. He’s…” I pause. I realize I can’t even say it out loud. “I’m figuring things out. Go eat. I’ll join later.”
Giulia gives me one last look, clearly amused, and leaves.
I turn back to the screens. Charts, maps, logs. Every piece of data is a potential doorway into his world. I run my hands over the keyboard.
I know he’s aware. Of course he is. He’s probably sitting somewhere, reading the same files, watching me try to solve his puzzle. Smirking. Laughing quietly at my frustration.
And that thought, as much as it angers me, fuels me.
Because one day, I will find the crack in his armor.
One day, I will know everything.
One day, Ren Moretti will slip.
And when he does…
I’ll be ready.
I close the files without saving anything new.
The screen goes dark.
I sit there for a moment longer than necessary, staring at my reflection in the glass. My eyes look tired. Not weak. Just tired. Every line feels sharper today. Every shadow under my eyes reminds me of nights spent chasing a ghost I can’t catch. I straighten in my chair and push it back. Work does not wait for frustration to pass, and neither do people who depend on me.
I stand and grab my cap. The leather strap creaks slightly as I adjust it. The air from the vent is cold on my neck, but it doesn’t bother me. I like mornings that are brisk and unforgiving. They remind me there’s a world outside my frustration.
The base hums differently by midday. Louder. Busier. The calm of dawn is gone, replaced by shouting officers, boots marching in rhythm, engines revving to life. The scent of fuel and dust cuts through the air. I welcome it. Noise drowns thoughts, and my thoughts are messy. Chaos outside is better than chaos inside.
I head back outside. The concrete under my boots is warm from the sun climbing, and I notice the glint of sunlight against the metal of the fences. I like to watch the base come alive this way. There’s a rhythm to it. Patterns. Predictable movements I can anticipate and control. Unlike last night. Unlike my thoughts.
The recruits are already lining up again. Sweat stains their uniforms now, evidence of hours pushed past endurance. Faces are flushed. Confidence chipped down just enough to make them real. This is the part I like. When reality sets in. When they stop pretending they are invincible.
“Form up,” I call.
They scramble faster this time. Feet pounding against the gravel, sleeves sticking to skin. Fear is an excellent motivator. I let it simmer.
I pace slowly in front of them, heels striking hard, boots echoing in rhythm with my pulse. I let my silence stretch. One of them swallows hard, trying to steady himself. Another shifts his weight nervously. Good. Fear sharpens attention.
“You think this is hard,” I say finally, voice low but cutting. “This is nothing. This is controlled. Out there is not.”
I point toward the perimeter, my finger slicing through the air with precision.
“Out there, hesitation gets people killed. Out there, your rank won’t save you. Your pride won’t save you. Only discipline will.”
I don’t raise my voice. I never need to. It carries anyway, carrying authority, expectation, judgment.
We train until their arms shake, until lungs burn, until the pain is sharp enough that it cuts through their arrogance. I correct stances. I bark orders. I make examples of the sloppy ones. When one of them stumbles, I don’t help him up. I wait. He pushes himself to his feet. That matters. That’s the lesson. Struggle builds strength. Weakness is temporary.
Giulia watches from the sidelines again, arms crossed, expression unreadable for once. Usually, she enjoys watching them crumble. Today, though, her gaze flickers toward me every few seconds, almost like she’s trying to read my mind.
When the session ends, I dismiss the recruits. They drag themselves off the field, heads low, bodies trembling from exertion, silent except for the occasional grunt of effort. I watch them go, satisfaction settling like weight in my chest.
Giulia approaches.
“You’re in a mood,” she says.
“I’m always in a mood,” I reply flatly, adjusting my cap.
She snorts. “You were harder on them than usual.”
“They’ll survive,” I say. Simple. Truthful.
She studies me, tilting her head. “Something’s bothering you.”
I glance at her. “You’re observant today.”
“I try.” She hesitates. “Is this about the investigation?”
My jaw tightens. Every mention of him makes the air in the room feel heavier. “Yes,” I admit.
She exhales sharply. “Still nothing?”
“Less than nothing,” I answer, fingers tightening around my cap.
“That doesn’t make sense,” she says, brow furrowed.
“It does if it’s intentional,” I say, voice calm, measured. I refuse to let frustration leak into anger in front of her.
Giulia tilts her head, a smirk tugging at her lips. “You think he let you in.”
“I know he did,” I say, crisp and certain.
She whistles softly, impressed despite herself. “Bold.”
“Arrogant,” I correct, because there’s a difference, and I’ll always make it clear.
She smirks. “Same thing.”
I don’t smile. I don’t even look at her. I can’t. I have no room for frivolity.
Giulia checks her watch. “Briefing in an hour. Command wants an update.”
“On what,” I ask, sharp, biting. “My lack of progress?”
“On next steps,” she says.
I nod once. “I’ll be there.”
She pauses, like she’s weighing whether to say more. “Try not to bite anyone’s head off.”
“No promises,” I answer, letting the sarcasm drip.
She laughs and walks away, heels clicking on the floor. I watch her go, wondering why she always finds amusement in everything.
I head back to my office and force myself to sit down again. The chair squeaks slightly under my weight, a tiny reminder that some things remain constant. I reopen the files, slower this time. Patient. Methodical. I look for patterns instead of gaps. Connections instead of holes.
Ren Moretti remains untouchable.
His businesses are clean. Too clean. Every partnership documented. Every shipment accounted for. Taxes paid. Charities funded. A golden boy with a polished empire, and a world built so tightly around him that no one—no one—can touch it.
I hate men like that. Men who hide behind legality like armor. Men who think they’re untouchable. Men like him.
I lean back and stare at the ceiling. The breach. That one time I got close. It replays in my head like an insult. A door left unlocked just long enough for me to notice it existed. Then slammed shut. A challenge. A dare. A taunt.
I crack my knuckles and stand. Enough.
If I can’t reach him digitally, I will reach him another way. Pressure changes people. Pressure exposes cracks. It makes them sloppy. It makes them human. And human is easier to control. Easier to predict. Easier to trap.
I grab my jacket and head to the briefing room.
The room is already filling when I arrive. Officers. Analysts. a few faces I don’t recognize. Maps glow on the screens, illuminating their tense expressions. The air smells like coffee and tension mixed with the faint metal scent of electronics.
I take my seat near the front, fingers brushing over the polished surface of the table. Each movement precise, deliberate. Focused.
The General enters a moment later. The room stills. Everyone sits up straighter. Eyes forward. The rhythm of the base disappears as the weight of authority settles in.
“Let’s begin,” he says.
The briefing drags. Updates. Projections. Risk assessments. Charts flicker and blink, analysts drone on. Nothing new. Nothing useful. My patience thins, but I maintain composure. I can play their game. I can wait. I always wait.
Finally, my name comes up.
“Captain Russo,” the General says. “Your unit will be taking a more direct role moving forward.”
I straighten. Alert. Focused. “Sir?”
“We are shifting from passive observation to active pursuit.”
A ripple moves through the room. Whispers. Eyes darting toward me. My pulse quickens. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for.
“You’re authorizing field operations,” I confirm.
“Yes,” he says, steady, measured.
I nod. “About time.”
A few people glance at each other, uneasy, impressed, skeptical. The General continues.
“You’ll be leading a small task unit. Discreet. Mobile. No unnecessary exposure.”
Good. Exactly what I want. Control. Efficiency. Power to move without interference.
“You’ll have support,” he adds. “Including a new attachment.”
I frown slightly.
“A recruit?” I ask.
“An operative,” he corrects. “Transferred in this morning.”
I don’t like surprises.
“When was this decided?” I ask, wary.
“Above your clearance,” he says calmly. Of course it is.
The door behind us opens. Footsteps echo against the floor, deliberate and confident.
I turn.
And freeze.
Luca D’Angelo walks in like he owns the room. Relaxed. Polished. Infuriatingly calm. Like a tailored suit draped over arrogance. His eyes find mine instantly. His mouth curves into a slow, knowing smirk.
The General gestures toward him.
“Captain Russo,” he says, “this is Luca D’Angelo. He’ll be joining your unit. Effective immediately.”
My mind blanks.
This has to be a mistake.
I stare at Luca. He meets my gaze without flinching. Without apology. Amused. Like he’s been waiting for this moment.
“You’ll be working together,” the General continues, oblivious. “Your objective remains the same. Locate Ren Moretti.”
I don’t hear anything else. All I can see is Luca. Standing there. Smirking. And somehow, impossibly, about to become my problem.