The night at Caffè Luna had ended, but its echoes persisted. Damian told himself it was nothing—just a chance encounter, a ghost from a life he had buried long ago. He had no reason to think of Isabella Rossi again.
He threw himself into work, into the rhythm of control that had always steadied him. Meetings, calls, and the quiet hum of the estate filled his hours. The empire he had built demanded his attention, and he gave it willingly.
It was late afternoon when his phone rang. Unknown number. He ignored it. It rang again. And again. By the fourth call, he answered, irritation sharpening his tone.
"Moretti."
"Still all business," came the voice—smooth and familiar. "I was hoping you'd sound happier to hear from me."
He didn't need to ask who it was. "You shouldn't have my number."
"You left it on the table," she said, her tone smooth, teasing. "I just picked it up. You always were careless with the things that mattered."
He exhaled slowly, forcing calm. "What do you want, Isabella?"
"Lunch," she said. "Just to talk."
"No."
A pause. Then a soft laugh. "Still stubborn. Fine, Damian. Another time, then."
The line went dead.
He stared at the phone for a long moment before setting it aside.
That night, he barely slept. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, the memory of Isabella's voice replaying in his mind. It wasn't nostalgia. It was a warning.
He rose before dawn. The estate was silent, the air cool and heavy with mist. He walked through the halls, past the portraits and marble, the symbols of everything he had built—everything he could lose. In the reflection of the tall windows, he caught his own expression: composed, but tired. Haunted.
By morning, he was back in his office, the world already demanding his focus.
The phone sat on the desk, silent now, but heavy with implication. He knew Isabella—she wouldn't stop at one call. And he was right.
That evening, as the sun dipped below the skyline, his phone buzzed again. The same number. He didn't answer. A message followed.
"You can't hide behind that ring forever, Damian. It's just a meal."
He stared at the screen, jaw tightening. The audacity of it almost made him laugh. Almost.
He deleted the message, but the words stayed with him long after.
When Alessia entered the study later that night, she found him standing by the window, a glass of whiskey in hand, the city lights flickering across his face.
"You're quiet tonight," she said softly.
"Long day," he replied.
She crossed the room, resting a hand on his shoulder. "You've had too many of those lately."
He turned, managing a faint smile. "I'll be fine."
But when she left, the silence pressed in again. He set the glass down, the amber liquid catching the light, and looked out at the city.
He didn't know what Isabella wanted, but he knew one thing for certain: she wasn't finished.
And neither, it seemed, was the past.