The rose was not a hallucination.
Marco confirmed it.
But the house staff? None of them had entered my bedroom. The cameras showed nothing. Again.
"He's toying with you," Benedetta said coldly on the phone. "He wants you unhinged."
"He's succeeding."
"You don't sound like you."
"I'm not."
By Wednesday, two more of my men were missing.
Fabio - found dead in a river, his tongue cut out.
Emilio - never found at all.
Someone was sending a message with each disappearance.
Someone who knew my routes. My schedules.
My rituals.
Someone who knew me.
The only conclusion I could draw was the one I least wanted to admit: we'd been infiltrated.
And I couldn't trust anyone.
Not even Marco.
That night, I didn't sleep. Again.
I stood in the hallway outside my bedroom.
The lights flickered, once, twice.
The silence thick as snow.
And then I heard it, faint, distant, echoing.
Piano.
Again.
The same melody. Beethoven.
But this time, slower. Crueler.
Like it was being played with one hand… while the other twisted a knife.
I went to the parlor.
It was empty.
But the keys were still warm when I touched them.
I sat at the piano for a long time.
Something in me broke that night.
Maybe it was the silence.
Maybe it was the sound of my own breath, the sudden realization that I was being studied, like a predator watches prey, but with fascination, not hunger.
And maybe…
Maybe it was the way I wanted him to come back.
Just once more.
To look at me.
To speak to me.
To touch me.
Flashback.
Age 17.
My father had thrown a wine bottle across the room. It missed me by inches.
"You are too soft, Adriano," he snarled. "Too delicate. You want men to love you,
not fear you. And that is why they will bury you one day."
At seventeen, I didn't understand what he meant.
Now I did.
The next day, I called Benedetta again.
"Find the leak," I told her. "I want every man in this famiglia interrogated. No exception."
"You're slipping," she said.
I didn't reply.
"You used to be ice. Now you're trembling over letters and flowers."
"You're dismissed."
I hung up.
I couldn't have her see this version of me.
This man who was… unraveling.
Because the worst part wasn't the deaths.
Wasn't the messages.
Wasn't even the presence of the stranger in my house.
It was the fact that he knew me.
Down to my core.
He knew what frightened me.
What tempted me.
What I wanted.
And he was peeling back the layers one by one.
That night, I tried to trap him.
I stayed awake, armed, wired the entire hallway, placed micro-triggers in every doorframe.
And I waited.
At 2:33 a.m., the alarm went off in the eastern wing.
I ran.
Gun drawn.
Heart racing.
Shadow after shadow.
I reached the end of the corridor.
Empty.
And then I noticed:
My bedroom door was open, I hadn't left it that way.
I stepped inside.
Nothing.
But on the bed…
A mask.
Black silk.
Delicate.
A masquerade mask.
With a note.
Wear it when you're ready.
—T.
I smashed a vase.
Then another.
Then the mirror.
I was cracking, and I knew it.
I was losing control.
Not to fear.
But to fascination.
What kind of man plays music in your house, leaves roses in your bed, carves your initials into your allies, and still manages to make it feel like… romance?
What kind of madness was that?
What kind of monster.. Was I?
At 5 a.m., I stood shirtless at the balcony, breathing in the winter air.
And I saw him again.
Far. By the tree line.
Just a silhouette. Long coat. Hands in pockets.
Still.
Watching.
He didn't wave this time.
He just stood there.
And I, against every logic and instinct, whispered into the dawn:
"…Come closer."