ADRIAN POV:
The doors to the dining hall opened slowly, and all eyes turned toward me. The chandeliers above reflected off the polished floor, and the long table stretched like a line of soldiers waiting for orders. Guests shifted in their seats. Whispers floated through the room, careful, like they were testing the air.
I walked in, black suit tight, tie straight, hands relaxed at my sides. My face was calm, but my eyes were dead. I could feel their fear even before I reached the table. The boy they knew was gone. The man in front of them was a storm waiting to strike.
"Adrian…" one of the men started, a little too casually, "you look… well."
I didn't answer. I didn't need to. My gaze swept the room slowly. Every mafia boss, every soldier, every guest could feel it. I was here. I was calm. I was dangerous.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Don Vittorio's old ally, Lorenzo. He tried to smile, but it faltered when our eyes met. "Times… changing, aren't they?" he said, voice low, careful.
"Yes," I said softly, stepping closer. "Times are changing."
A few whispers, nervous shuffles. I heard the subtle clicking of heels as the women tried to appear composed. They all knew what the silence meant. I was watching. I was measuring. I was ready.
I reached the head of the table. I placed a hand lightly on the polished wood. "Dinner," I said quietly. My voice didn't raise, but everyone turned fully toward me. Even the servers froze. "Shall we begin?"
A few men chuckled nervously, but the humor died quickly. They didn't dare speak again. Not yet. Not when I was watching.
I moved slowly down the table, scanning each face. "How are your families?" I asked casually to Don Lorenzo, who coughed, hiding a nervous laugh.
"They… are well, Adrian. You honor us with your… presence."
I nodded slightly. "Good. I expect loyalty to be the same."
The subtle threat hung in the air, but nobody said a word. They all knew me as Adrian Moretti, the son of Don Vittorio, but now… I was different. Harder. Colder. A man who had seen blood, pain, and betrayal, and had learned to use it.
From the back of the hall, a young man whispered to his friend, "Do you feel that? He's… different."
"Different?" the friend whispered back. "He's dangerous."
I heard enough. I didn't need to turn. The room was mine. Every laugh, every cough, every movement was measured. I could feel their eyes on me, testing. Seeing if the boy still lived behind these dead eyes.
A slight smirk appeared on my lips. They would learn soon enough.
Just then, a tray of wine glasses moved too close to the edge of the table. I picked one up casually, spun it slowly in my hand, then set it down firmly. "Careful," I said, glancing around. "Even small mistakes can… cost you."
Heads nodded quickly. Silence fell again. Every single person felt the shift. The boy they knew was gone. The man standing here now was the storm in the calm.
I took a deep breath and let my hand rest lightly on the edge of the table. From here, the night would test loyalty, reveal danger, and set the stage for what I would do next.
And I would make them all remember, Adrian Moretti wasn't the son of a man—they would fear him, and they would obey.
The old mafia boss, Don Ferraro, leaned back in his chair with a sly grin. "Times change, Adrian," he said, voice smooth. "Your father… he was strong, yes. But now? Maybe the family needs… flexibility."
I didn't flinch. I stared at him, letting my gaze linger. Every flicker of arrogance in his eyes I caught and burned into memory.
"Flexibility?" I repeated, calm, quiet, like I was speaking to a child. "Explain what you mean."
He chuckled nervously. "I mean… decisions need new minds. The world changes. Families must adapt, yes?"
I picked up the knife from the table beside me. I let it spin slowly in my hand, the steel glinting under the chandelier. The sound of it slicing through the air was enough to silence everyone further.
"Do you think my father would have tolerated your tone?" I asked, voice low. My eyes never left his. "Do you think I will?"
Don Ferraro's grin faltered. "I… I meant nothing…"
I slammed the knife into the table next to my hand. The thud echoed like a gunshot. Everyone jumped slightly.
"Careful with your words," I said, calm but deadly. "Respect is not optional here. Speak again with arrogance, and you will see why loyalty matters more than clever speech."
The old man swallowed hard, nodding quickly. "Of course, Adrian. I… I understand."
I let the knife rest flat on the table, my hand hovering near it. Slowly, I let my gaze travel across the room. Every boss, every soldier, every minor associate watched me carefully. They were measuring, testing me, but the truth was simple: I was not the boy they remembered.
"I suggest," I continued, voice even, "that all words here tonight honor the memory of my father. Or… leave the rest to chance."
Heads nodded quickly. Even the women at the table stiffened, realizing that the calm man in front of them was a storm waiting.
One of the younger men whispered to another, almost audibly, "He's… dangerous. Did you see that?"
"Yes," the other whispered back. "This isn't the Adrian we knew. He… scares me."
Good. Let them feel it. Fear was necessary. Fear meant attention. And attention meant control.
I leaned slightly closer to Don Ferraro. "You have one more warning. Use your tongue wisely," I said quietly. "I do not tolerate disrespect."
The old man nodded quickly again. "Yes… of course, Adrian. No disrespect."
Satisfied, I straightened. My gaze swept the room one more time, lingering on each face, silently marking those who would bend and those who might resist.
A small murmur ran through the hall, the sound of nervous laughter, shuffled feet, and swallowed coughs. I didn't care. I let it pass.
I moved to the head of the table and rested both hands lightly on the polished wood. "Dinner," I said simply, voice calm. "Shall we continue?"
No one dared speak beyond a polite nod. The night had begun, and the rules were clear. Adrian Moretti was no longer the son of a man. He was the man standing in front of them. The man who would take control.
And if anyone forgot… they would pay the price.
The heavy doors at the end of the hall opened, and all eyes shifted again. This time, it wasn't a man. It was her. Isabella.
She stepped in slowly, red dress hugging her figure perfectly, heels clicking softly against the marble floor. Heads turned. Men whispered. Even Don Ferraro's gaze flicked toward her for a moment before he looked away quickly.
I didn't move at first. My eyes followed her as she walked straight toward me. Her lips curved in a small, practiced smile. My chest tightened. I felt something inside me soften, something dangerous and private that no one else could touch.
"Adrian," she said softly, stepping behind me. Her hands slid around my waist, hugging me from behind. The heat of her body pressed against mine, and for a moment, the weight of the hall, the stares, the tension—all of it—disappeared.
"I didn't expect you so… serious," she whispered in my ear.
"I'm always serious," I said, calm, letting her hug me. My eyes scanned the room without looking away from the table, noting every movement. "Tonight is not for games."
She pressed closer, whispering, "I know. But be careful. Some people here… they aren't what they seem."
I felt her words, and a flicker of trust flared. She was protecting me. Or so I thought.
"I don't need protection," I said quietly. "But I appreciate the warning." I turned slightly in her embrace and kissed the side of her cheek. She smiled, a little too perfectly, and I let it be.
From across the room, I noticed subtle movements. A few men shifted uncomfortably, glances exchanged. It was as if they could sense her presence changed the energy in the room. But I ignored it. I only cared about her.
She whispered again, soft enough that only I could hear. "Watch your left side tonight. Someone may try to test you."
I stiffened, scanning the hall quickly. Nothing obvious. I trusted her instinct. My hand brushed lightly over hers. "I'll handle it," I said. "Stay close."
Her smile widened. "Always," she said, voice gentle. She let go just slightly and took her place at my side, standing close but careful, watching, waiting.
I caught her gaze for a moment, and my heart betrayed me. She was beautiful. Perfect. Dangerous in her innocence. I wanted to trust her completely, and I did—blindly.
Little did I know, her warning wasn't for my benefit at all. The subtle hand gestures she made, the glances she threw toward a corner of the room where her uncle's men waited, all meant something else entirely. But I didn't see it. Not yet.
I cleared my throat. "Dinner will begin shortly," I said aloud, loud enough for everyone to hear. "We have guests. Respect the memory of my father. Conduct yourselves accordingly."
A few men nodded quickly, uneasy. Some whispered to each other. I didn't care. My focus was on Isabella. On her warmth, her touch. On the lie I couldn't yet sense.
She squeezed my hand briefly, her eyes meeting mine. "I'm with you," she said softly.
I believed her.
Little did I know that will be my first mistake.