Chapter 9 - Isabella
My room feels different.
It’s an unsettling realization, the kind that prickles at the back of my neck even before I know why. I step away from the bed, bare feet pressing against the cool wooden floor, and scan the space for whatever is causing this feeling.
Then, I see it.
The painting is gone.
I stare at the empty space where it had stood just last night, the faint outline of paint-smudged fingerprints still visible on the easel’s edges. A strange mix of frustration and confusion twists inside me.
Dominic.
It has to be him.
I wrap my arms around myself, frowning. The painting was his commission, but he didn’t even have the courtesy to tell me he was taking it. That alone ignites rage inside me. I should feel relief that it’s finally out of my hands, that I won’t have to stare at it anymore, wondering why I felt compelled to make it perfect.
But instead, I feel… robbed. Because this painting wasn’t just a transaction. At least not for me. It was mine, too. A piece of me.
And now, it’s gone.
I let out a slow breath, trying to shake the prickle of unease crawling over my skin. It’s not just the missing painting that unsettles me—it’s everything else.
The house feels different. On edge.
I first noticed it in small ways—the added security, the whispered conversations in the hallways that stopped when I entered. But now, standing in my bedroom, I realize it’s not just in my head.
Something is happening.
And I need to find out what.
I grab a shawl from the chair, wrapping it around my shoulders before stepping out onto the stone pathway that leads to the garden.
The night air is crisp, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and the distant salt of the sea. The garden, usually a sanctuary of color and fragrance, feels different tonight. The roses seem darker under the silver moonlight, their petals curling in on themselves as if they, too, sense the approaching danger.
But it’s not just the stillness that unnerves me—it’s the movement.
Unfamiliar men weave in and out of the house, their shadows long against the lantern-lit pathway. Some carry heavy black cases, their expressions grim, their voices low. Others speak in hushed tones, their words clipped and urgent.
Weapons. Guns.
The realization clicks into place as I see one of the men discreetly open a case near the garage. The metallic gleam of a gun catches the light before he snaps it shut again.
My pulse jumps.
I know this world—at least, I know what it looks like from the outside. Demitri has been involved with the wrong people ever since he was in high school, and while he rarely confided in me, I wasn’t blind. I had seen the signs.
This isn’t business as usual.
This is more than that.
The cool air clings to my skin, carrying the scent of damp earth and freshly cut grass. The estate’s garden, usually a sanctuary, is cloaked in anticipation, as though even the trees and flowers sense the danger stirring beneath the surface.
Then, I see him.
Dominic stands near the hedge bordering the east side, the moonlight casting his sharp features in an almost unreal glow. The gray of his suit contrasts against the deep green of the garden, making him look effortlessly powerful. The fabric fits his broad shoulders too well, like it was made to command attention.
But what catches me the most isn’t how he looks. It’s how he stands—rigid, focused, radiating an authority that no one dares to question.
Charles stands beside him, his expression grim, his arms crossed. The way they stand—one controlled, the other restless—tells me something is wrong.
I inch closer, pressing myself against the rough stone pillar of the fountain, hidden behind the curve of ivy. The stone is icy against my back, grounding me as I strain to listen.
“We shouldn’t go in blind,” Charles says, voice taut with frustration. “Adrian’s a rat. He’ll say anything to save his own skin.”
Dominic doesn’t flinch. “He was terrified,” he says smoothly, like he’s stating an undeniable fact. “That kind of fear doesn’t lie.”
Charles scoffs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Fear makes men desperate. Desperate men say whatever the hell they think will buy them more time.”
Dominic tilts his head, unimpressed. “You think he’s playing us?”
“I think it’s possible,” Charles challenges, his brow furrowing. “Adrian’s not the smartest, but he knows survival. And survival means telling you exactly what you want to hear.”
Dominic exhales, long and slow. “If he’s lying, we’ll know soon enough.”
“That’s exactly my point, Dom,” Charles pushes. “By then, it might be too late.”
Dominic’s gaze sharpens, a glimmer of challenge in his eyes. “You’re doubting me.”
Charles doesn’t immediately answer. Instead, he studies Dominic, his eyes searching, weighing his next words. “I’m questioning whether you’re thinking this through.”
Dominic doesn’t appreciate being questioned.
“I always think things through.” His voice is quieter now, but deadlier. “Pier 12 isn’t just a meeting point, it’s a move.”
Charles shakes his head. “It’s a goddamn risk.”
“So is sitting back and waiting for Samuel to push first,” Dominic counters smoothly. “I don’t wait for people to make the first move, Charles. You know that.”
“Yeah, and I also know you don’t hesitate when it comes to gutting people who betray you,” Charles says, voice lower. “So why the hell are you trusting Adrian at all?”
Dominic’s eyes flash. “Because Adrian doesn’t have the balls—or the brains—to play both sides.”
Charles exhales through his nose, clearly still skeptical. “I don’t like it. It’s messy.”
“It’s necessary,” Dominic corrects.
Charles’ hand flexes over his bicep, fingers drumming once before curling into a fist. “Then let me take a team. If shit goes south, we handle it without you getting your hands dirty.”
Dominic lets out a quiet laugh—but it isn’t amused. “You think I send my men into war while I sit back and sip whiskey?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Charles mutters. “I meant—”
“No.” The single word is final.
A long pause stretches between them before Dominic adds, “I’m going. That’s not up for discussion.”
Charles exhales sharply, rubbing his temples. “Damn it, Dom—”
“Who’s in charge here?” Dominic cuts him off, his voice slow, lethal.
Charles releases a slow breath, resignation settling in his expression. “You are.”
Dominic doesn’t move, doesn’t shift—he just holds Charles in that quiet, unshakable stare of his. The kind that doesn’t allow for argument.
“Then act like it.”
My breath catches in my throat, my pulse pounding against my ribs.
Pier 12.
Weapons.
A meeting that could turn into a massacre.
And Dominic is walking straight into it.
Ice drips through my veins at the sharp finality of his words. He’s not just a leader—he’s the leader. Unquestioned. Unchallenged. Even Charles, the man who’s always by his side, ultimately falls silent in the face of Dominic’s authority.
And for the first time, I hate it.
I hate how he’s so damn certain, how he refuses to see how reckless this is.
I hate how he won’t even consider backing down.
But more than that, I hate that I care.
I want to stop the twisting unease in my chest—the urge to reach out and stop him. But I don’t. And I hate it.
Suddenly, I freeze. Dominic’s voice slides over me like silk, quiet but laced with undeniable authority.
“I hope you enjoyed the show.”
The words send a jolt through my system, making my pulse quicken. When I turn, I find him standing a few feet away, his posture relaxed but his presence imposing. His dark eyes are unreadable, but the way they settle on me—slow, assessing, almost amused—makes my stomach tighten.
Damn him.
Charles, standing off to the side, makes a low sound in his throat. “I need a drink,” he mutters before turning and strolling off, leaving us alone.
Coward.
The soft glow of neon from a nearby sign reflects off the silver streaks in Dominic’s suit, accentuating every sharp edge of his frame. He looks effortlessly powerful, like a man who belongs in control, a man who doesn’t second-guess his choices. The low light catches the angles of his face, tracing over the smooth planes of his jaw, and for a second, I forget to breathe.
His tie is slightly loosened, as if he’s been working for hours—planning. And from what I overheard… it’s dangerous.
I force myself to shake off the way my body reacts to him. It’s maddening—this pull toward him, this irritating awareness of how damn good he looks under the hazy glow of the city.
“I wasn’t—” I start, but the way his brow arches tells me he’s already decided I’m lying.
“Spying?” His voice carries a quiet challenge, his head tilting slightly. “Or eavesdropping?”
I scowl, stepping forward with more defiance than I actually feel. My arms cross tightly over my chest, a flimsy barrier between me and the way he makes my heart race. “I was walking.”
His lips twitch, that damn smirk, like he’s amused by my stubbornness. “Right.” Dominic watches me, his eyes darker than before. “What are you doing, Isabella?” His voice has dropped lower, the smooth cadence sending a warmth unfurling in my chest.
I exhale sharply. “Maybe I should be asking you that.”
His expression doesn’t change, but his gaze sharpens. “Curious, are we?” There’s amusement laced in his words, but underneath it, there’s something dangerous.
“Don’t patronize me.” I step closer, the crunch of gravel under my boots filling the heavy silence between us. The scent of his cologne—cedarwood and patchouli—wraps around me, and I force myself to focus. “I heard what you said.” My voice steadies. “Pier 12. Weapons. You’re walking into something dangerous.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “I walk into danger every day.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to be reckless.”
An inkling of apprehension strains his features, the corner of his mouth pressing into a hard line. For a second, I think he’s going to ignore me, brush me off like he always does. But then, there’s a shift.
A pause.
And then—he moves.
Not much, just one step, but it’s enough. Enough to burn a fire inside me. Enough to make me aware of just how close we are, how little space separates us.
His fingers graze my cheek, the touch impossibly light but purposeful. I stiffen, but I don’t move away. He trails his knuckles along my jaw, his touch lingering for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. The warmth of his skin burns against mine, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
“You don’t belong in this world, Isabella.” His voice is softer now, but no less firm. A warning. A command.
I swallow hard, my skin still tingling where he touched me.
Then, just like that—he turns and walks away.
Every instinct in my body screams at me to turn around, to go back inside where it’s safe, where I belong. But my body refuses to listen. My legs are already moving, my breath coming in short, uneven gasps as I make my way toward the idling car near the entrance. The low rumble of the engine vibrates through the still night, its headlights cutting through the thick fog veiling the darkness.My hands tremble as I reach for the door handle, my heartbeat a frantic drum against my ribs.
I glance around, my pulse hammering in my ears. No one’s paying attention. The guards are too busy shifting crates, their hushed conversations blending into the night. Dominic is already pulling away, his taillights glowing red like a warning, disappearing down the long driveway.
This is insane. Reckless. Stupid.
I should stay. Pretend I never heard anything, go back to my room, lock the door, and forget that Dominic Castellano is walking straight into danger.
But I can’t.
My chest tenses, making it impossible to ignore the gnawing dread twisting in my stomach. I don’t want to admit why I care—why the thought of anything happening to him makes my insides knot with fear.
My fingers tighten around the handle. Before I can second-guess myself, before logic can override my impulse, I yank the door open and slide into the driver’s seat.
The moment I settle behind the wheel, my hands gripping the cool leather, reality slams into me. The engine thrums beneath my fingertips, a soft, steady vibration, as if taunting me with the decision I’ve just made. My breathing is shallow, my mind racing.
I could still turn back.
But Dominic’s car is getting further away.
I suck in a deep breath, steadying my hands. My heart pounds so violently I feel it in my throat, but I force my foot onto the gas.
With one last, shaky inhale, I follow him into the unknown.
I feel like I have been driving for hours when the destination comes into view.
The industrial district is cold, the kind that seeps into your bones, wrapping around you like an unwelcome embrace. The scent of saltwater and rust lingers in the air, sharp and metallic, mixing with the distant stench of gasoline. A damp breeze drifts in from the harbor, carrying with it the faint, rhythmic slap of waves against the dock. The sound is oddly soothing, a steady contrast to the erratic thudding of my heartbeat. Overhead, a few dim streetlights cast long, fractured shadows across the cracked pavement. The warehouses loom like silent sentinels, their towering structures dark and foreboding, hollowed-out skeletons of a city that never quite sleeps.
I keep a cautious distance, my fingers clenching the steering wheel as Dominic’s car rolls to a stop in a secluded patch of the pier, hidden between stacks of shipping containers. He moves with precision, calculated and deliberate, exiting the car without hesitation. My breath catches in my throat as I watch him from behind the windshield, my pulse hammering against my ribs. The distant rumble of a cargo ship in the harbor is the only sound besides the blood rushing in my ears.
Then—he reaches into the backseat.
I lean forward, my hands gripping the dashboard as I strain to see what he’s doing. And then I see it.
My painting.
The realization slams into me like a freight train, confusion tightening around my chest. Why would he bring it here? What possible reason could he have to take a piece so personal and bring it to a place that radiates danger? My thoughts spiral, grasping for logic, but before I can make sense of it, something else steals my attention.
Movement.
Beyond Dominic, across the pier, another set of headlights slices through the darkness. A second car pulls in, then another, and another. The air shifts, suddenly electric, brimming with an unspoken agitation that causes a sharp jolt of fear to race through me.
More cars.
More men.
And guns.
I suck in a sharp breath, my body going rigid as I watch them emerge—figures cloaked in the night, their faces obscured by the low light. They move with a quiet efficiency, their postures rigid, their hands armed. The unmistakable gleam of metal catches the dim glow of the streetlights, the glint of weapons shifting in their grip.
My stomach drops, a sickening realization curling in my gut.
Dominic isn’t here for a meeting.
He’s walking straight into a war zone. And I might have just made the biggest mistake of my life.
Before I can stop myself, I call out, “Dominic!”