Nobody got any real sleep that night.
I figured that out for myself around two in the morning, when the ache in my shoulder woke me up out of a thin, restless doze.
Eventually, I stopped pretending sleep would ever show up.
The house wasn’t exactly silent—more like holding its breath.
I heard low voices downstairs, an occasional floorboard groaning, the careful click of a door closing.
All quiet, but not lifeless.
I slipped on Isabella’s robe, the one she’d left on my bed, and followed the voices.
They weren’t in the fancy dining room I’d glimpsed on my first tour, but in a much smaller kitchen tucked at the back of the house.
Warm light, steel counters.
It felt like a room meant for family, not for business.
Adrian sat at the counter with a drink he wasn’t touching, and Sal leaned against the sink, arms crossed.
They talked quietly enough that I couldn’t catch the words.
Both stopped as soon as they saw me.
“You should be resting,” Adrian said.
He didn’t sound surprised, though.
“So should you.” I nodded at his untouched glass.
“Seems like none of us are listening to that advice tonight.” Sal nearly smiled then, just a flicker, before his face went blank again.
Adrian watched me for a moment, then motioned for me to take a seat next to him.
“Sit.
You’re part of this whether we want you to be or not.” I slid onto the stool.
Sal poured water for me, set it in front of me, and I felt stupidly grateful for that small kindness after a whole day where nobody had bothered.
“We’ve narrowed down the leak to three people,” Adrian said.
He didn’t waste time on a preamble.
“Staff with access to the medical wing in the past three days—who also have any documented contact with Moretti’s people.
Minor, major, doesn’t matter.
It’s not airtight, but it’s something.” “Three people.” I echoed him.
“In your own house?” Sal’s voice sounded rough, a little tired.
“Loyalty doesn’t mean much just because you’re on the Vitale payroll.
Money moves people.
Fear moves them faster.
Rocco’s good at both.” “So what happens to them?” I asked.
“The three people?” Adrian looked at me, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
“That depends on what we find out tomorrow.” I didn’t need more detail.
“Depends” meant it wasn’t going to be gentle.
Some old reflex in me—having spent my whole life raised inside pack law where betrayal brought consequences nobody questioned—recognized the shape of what he said and didn’t argue.
Another, quieter part wondered when I’d stopped being scared by that kind of certainty and started finding it almost comforting.
“Why’s Rocco such a big deal?” I finally asked.
“Whatever history you two have—why does one visit from him send the whole house into panic?” Sal and Adrian exchanged a glance, quick and loaded—like old wounds neither really wanted to reopen.
“Rocco Moretti and my father were partners once,” Adrian answered.
His voice went flat in the way I was starting to recognize as his tell, whenever something actually cost him to say it.
“Before I was born.
They built half of this together.
My father found out Rocco had been skimming money for years, making himself rich off deals they should’ve split evenly.” “What happened?” “My father called him out.
Rocco denied it, then killed my father’s second-in-command to cover his tracks.” Adrian’s jaw clenched.
“It took three years and a small war to prove it.
Rocco ended up losing half his territory.
He’s spent every year since rebuilding—and waiting.” “Waiting for what?” “For my father to die,” Sal said quietly.
“And for Adrian to make a mistake big enough to justify grabbing the rest.” The room went still.
Suddenly, I got it—what I’d walked into three days ago wasn’t just a rescue, wasn’t just some man’s possessive curiosity.
I’d landed in the middle of a cold war, and my presence had given Rocco the excuse he’d waited years to find.
“Then I should leave,” I told them.
The words tasted like ash; part of me didn’t really want to say them.
“If being here is the mistake he’s been waiting for—” “No.” Adrian’s voice cut across mine, sharp and immediate.
“Adrian—” “You walk out now, alone, and Rocco picks you up before you hit the gate.” His eyes pinned mine, dark and stubborn.
“That’s not a rescue plan, Wren.
That’s just a slower version of what Redthorn already did to you.” That hit like a slap, mostly because I didn’t have an argument to shoot back.
“So what happens instead?” I asked, quieter now.
Adrian didn’t answer right away.
He spun his glass between his fingers, and when he finally looked up, something had shifted—a new kind of calculation in his eyes.
Decided.
Maybe resolved.
“Instead,” he said, “we stop reacting to Rocco, and start making him react to us.” “How?” “By finding out exactly what you are,” he said, “before he does.
And making sure, whatever it turns out to be, it’s protected by more than just my name when he comes for it.” Across the counter, Sal’s face went blank—like he already guessed where this was headed and really didn’t know if he liked it.
“You mean the old registries,” Sal said slowly.
“The bloodline records.
Nobody’s touched those in—” “I know how long it’s been,” Adrian said.
He kept his eyes on me.
“If Redthorn was so scared of what she carries that they broke pack law just to be rid of her, then somewhere in this world, there’s a record of why.
And I’m going to find it before Rocco does.” I sat there, water glass forgotten in my hand, feeling my whole sense of myself rearrange around a truth I still didn’t understand.
Two years spent being told I was nothing.
Three days discovering, piece by piece, that “nothing” was never true—my blood carried a secret worth reawakening old wars, worth Adrian risking his whole legacy.
“Why does it matter to you?” I blurted out, before I could stop myself.
“Personally.
Not the strategy.
Not leverage against Rocco.
Why do you care?” Adrian didn’t look away, and for the first time since waking up in his territory, I saw behind his careful control—a glimpse, just for a second, of something softer underneath.
“Because,” he said quietly, “I’ve spent my whole life being told what I’m worth by men who only saw the Vitale name, not me.
And three nights ago, I found a woman bleeding on the wrong side of a border, thrown away by people that should’ve protected her, and she looked at me like she already decided her own life wasn’t worth saving.” He set down the glass, untouched, voice rough around the edges.
“I won’t let that be true.” The kitchen got very quiet.
Sal found something fascinating in his own glass, giving us privacy without being asked.
I didn’t say anything.
Honestly, I couldn’t trust what would come out if I tried—not with my pulse doing something shaky and unfamiliar, not with the broken mate bond still aching just enough to make me distrust every warm feeling that dared to surface.
So I just let the silence hang between us, charged and uncertain, and for the first time in days, not unwelcome at all.
Sal finally broke it, clearing his throat and pushing away from the counter like he’d decided he needed to be elsewhere.
“I’ll start on the registries in the morning,” he said.
“Get some sleep.
Both of you.
Rocco’s not moving again tonight—he likes to let people stew for a few days before coming back.
Classic him.” He left, and somehow the kitchen felt smaller after he was gone.
The space between Adrian and me was bigger, charged.
“You should sleep,” Adrian said again, but neither of us got up.
“So should you,” I echoed, and this time, when his mouth turned up—not quite smiling, but close enough—I felt something loosen in my chest.
Dangerous, unfamiliar, and completely unwelcome, considering everything I didn’t know about the war I’d just landed in.
Outside, beyond the walls, night pressed in heavy and watchful.
And somewhere out there, I was sure Rocco Moretti was counting days till he came back for whatever secret my blood still hid.