Chapter 17 - Isabella
The car ride back to the estate is torturous. The driver, a man I don’t recognize, keeps his eyes firmly on the road, his posture stiff. I watch the city lights blur past through the tinted windows, my fingers clenched in my lap.
Dominic sent me home.
The words circle in my mind, over and over, like a slow, burning realization. He didn’t ask. He ordered.
Nico barely met my eyes when he found us in the gallery, his usual sarcasm and easy charm replaced by something I couldn’t quite place. But I did notice one thing—the instant he saw Dominic, something changed.
One minute, he looked pissed. The next, his expression shuttered, his mouth pressing into a firm line, his shoulders going rigid.
Dominic didn’t even acknowledge me properly. Just a quick glance, a clipped, “I’ll see you at home,” before giving an order to the driver.
And then he was gone.
The pit in my stomach grows heavier the closer we get to the estate. I press my fingers against my temple, willing the growing headache away. Something happened.
I can feel it.
The estate is eerily quiet when I step inside.
I make my way to my room, slipping out of my heels the moment the door shuts behind me. My bare feet press against the cold floor as I move toward the window, my mind reeling with the events of the day. I try to piece everything together, to make sense of what happened, but the thoughts tangle, looping in endless circles.
An hour passes. Maybe more. I don’t bother checking the time.
When the silence gets too unbearable, I slip out of my room. I pad down the hallway, each step careful, measured. When I reach the end of the corridor, I hear voices.
Nico and Dominic.
I press myself against the wall, the firelight from inside the library casting long shadows through the crack in the door.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Nico hisses, his voice low but sharp. “This wasn’t just a warning. You know what this means, don’t you?”
Dominic’s voice follows, lower, measured, but brimming with restrained fury. “I know exactly what it means.”
“Do you?” Nico challenges. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re handling this like a goddamn personal vendetta instead of a war strategy.”
A pause.
Then Dominic’s voice, quiet but lethal. “You think this isn’t personal?”
Nico exhales harshly. “That’s not what I meant.”
Silence stretches between them.
Then Dominic speaks again, his words edged with frustration. “They knew, Nico. About Isabella. About the fucking painting. And God knows what.”
My breath catches.
The ring.
I take a careful step forward, the words burning in my mind. They knew about the ring. The one Demitri stole. The same one that symbolizes my relationship with the DeLuca’s.
“How?” Nico asks, his voice lower now, cautious.
Dominic doesn’t answer immediately. Then—
“We have a rat.”
My stomach drops.
“We knew that,” Nico mutters. “We just didn’t know how deep the rot went.”
Silence. Then the scrape of a glass against the desk, the sound of Dominic’s exhale—tired, controlled.
“This ends soon,” he says.
Nico doesn’t respond.
My heart hammers in my chest, my mind racing. I step closer, ready to push the door open, demand answers, but before I can—
Dominic’s voice cuts through the air like a blade.
“You’ve been eavesdropping long enough.”
I freeze.
Then the door swings open.
Dominic stands in the doorway, his dark eyes locking onto mine, his expression hardened.
I hold my ground, even though every nerve in my body is screaming at me to move, to run.
“Are you going to let me in?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intend.
Dominic doesn’t move. Behind him, Nico sighs, dragging a hand through his hair.
“This isn’t a conversation you need to be a part of, Isabella,” Dominic says finally.
“Bullshit,” I snap. “You just admitted that someone inside your own house betrayed you. And that I was part of it. How the hell am I supposed to pretend I didn’t hear that?”
Dominic exhales slowly, his fingers tightening around the glass in his hand.
“I’ll handle it.”
“That’s not an answer,” I shoot back.
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
His tone is final.
But I don’t accept it.
I step past him into the library, my pulse pounding. “Where’s Charles? Where’s Jayden?”
Nico stiffens.
Dominic’s expression doesn’t change. But that lack of reaction is its own answer.
My stomach twists. “Where are they?”
Dominic sets the glass down carefully, his movements too measured. “Jayden left earlier today.”
I narrow my eyes. “And Charles?”
I feel the shift before Dominic even says the words.
“He’s gone.”
The air thickens, pressing against my ribs.
“Gone?” I repeat, my voice barely above a whisper.
Dominic’s gaze hardens. “He left. That’s all you need to know.”
No. That’s not all I need to know.
But before I can push further, Nico steps in, his voice lighter, but forced. “Come on, Bella. Let it go.”
I snap toward him. “Don’t patronize me.”
Dominic clenches his jaw. “Isabella—”
“No,” I cut him off. “I’m not just some pawn in this. You don’t get to decide what I do or don’t need to know.”
Dominic’s features darken. “I do when it’s about keeping you safe.”
Safe.
That word burns through me.
Safe means keeping me in the dark. Safe means leaving me behind. Safe means not trusting me enough to tell me the truth.
And I am so fucking tired of being protected like a breakable thing.
I shake my head, stepping back. “Fine. If you won’t tell me, I’ll find out myself.”
Then I turn and walk away.
I storm through the halls of the estate, getting breathless with each step. The walls feel taller tonight, the high ceilings stretching endlessly above me as if the house itself is trying to swallow me whole. My pulse pounds in my ears, a steady, relentless drumbeat that matches the urgency in my steps.
The estate is too quiet. Not the peaceful kind, but the kind of silence that crackles with the unspoken words. The chandeliers glow dimly above me, casting long, eerie shadows on the polished floors. The air feels heavier, thicker, like the house is holding its breath, waiting for something to snap.
Jayden.
Charles.
Something is wrong. I feel it in my bones.
I turn a corner, the scent of roasted meat and fresh herbs hitting me like a warm, deceptive embrace. The kitchen.
It’s the only place in the house that still feels alive.
When I push open the door, the soft clatter of dishes and murmured conversations come to an abrupt halt.
The staff stills.
A few of them lower their gazes, pretending to focus on their work. The kitchen smells of garlic and onions sizzling in oil, of baked bread cooling on the counter, of rich and earthy smell wafting from the stove. But the moment I step inside, those comforting scents seem to fade into the background, swallowed by nervousness.
Eyes flick to me, some wary, others cautious.
I force myself to stay calm.
“Have any of you seen Jayden today?”
A few of them glance at one another, sharing uncertain looks.
A man in a chef’s coat clears his throat and shakes his head. “Not since yesterday.”
Another woman, older, frowns and wipes her hands on her apron. “No, Miss. Haven’t seen him.”
A few other staff members nod in agreement, their voices overlapping with quick denials.
But I see it—the hesitation in their eyes, the slight stiffness in their movements. They’re lying.
Then—
“I saw him this morning,” a voice says, quiet but firm.
My head snaps toward the source.
Georgia.
She stands near the sink, her hands gripping a towel too tightly, her knuckles paling from the pressure. Her brown eyes flick to mine, nervous but resolute.
I take a step toward her. “When?”
She swallows, looking around as if hoping someone else will answer for her. When no one does, she exhales and bites her lip.
“I don’t know exactly. Maybe… early? Before breakfast.”
I narrow my eyes. “And then?”
Her fingers twist the towel in her hands. “He left.”
I don’t like the way she says it. Flat. Final.
I cross my arms, my voice sharpening. “Did he say where he was going?”
She shakes her head.
Frustration coils tight in my chest.
I turn to the others, scanning their faces. “Are you sure? No one saw where he went? Who he was with?”
A chorus of negatives. A few shrugs. Averting gazes.
I exhale sharply. They’re hiding information.
Or, worse—they know something and are too afraid to say it.
I nod once, trying to tamp down my rising irritation. “Alright.”
I turn to leave, my mind already racing toward the next step, toward the guards, when—
“He looked like he was in a hurry.”
The words freeze me in place.
I twist back, my pulse spiking. “What?”
Georgia bites her lip, her eyes flicking toward the others, uncertain. Like she regrets speaking at all.
But it’s too late now.
I take a slow, measured step closer. “What do you mean?”
She shifts uncomfortably, fingers tightening around the towel again. “I mean… I don’t know, he just seemed—off. In a rush. Like he didn’t want anyone to see him leaving.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
A prickle of unease wraps around my ribs like a vice.
Jayden was running.
And now—he’s gone.
I inhale deeply, trying to steady myself, but my pulse won’t slow.
I look at the other staff again, scanning their faces for any sign that someone knows more.
But they don’t meet my eyes.
And that tells me everything.
I take a step back, my voice calmer than I feel. “If any of you hear anything… anything at all. You come to me first. Understand?”
A murmur of acknowledgment ripples through the kitchen, but I don’t believe them.
I spin on my heel and push out the door, my heart hammering so hard it echoes in my ears.
The dimly lit halls stretch ahead of me, their stillness more haunting than before.
Jayden knew something.
And now he’s gone.
And Charles—
The thought hits me like a sledgehammer.
I never got an answer about Charles.
Jayden left. Charles is missing.
And Dominic refused to tell me why.
I press my fingers against my temples, trying to piece together the fragments of a puzzle that doesn’t make sense yet.
I should go to my room. Stay patient. But I can’t.
I won’t.
My feet move of their own accord, leading me down the corridor toward Dominic’s office. The door is closed, but I know it’s never locked—not from the inside, at least. My fingers tremble slightly as I wrap them around the brass handle.
I hesitate for only a second before pushing it open. I step inside, the door clicking shut behind me.
Then—I see it.
A small box sits on the center of his desk. Plain. Unassuming.
Except for the way the wood is stained dark in places, the way something inside it leaks, leaving small, ominous drops of deep crimson against the polished mahogany.
My breath catches in my throat.
I take a step closer, the floor beneath me feeling unsteady, like I’m walking straight into a trap.
My fingers tremble as I reach out—slowly, carefully—until they graze the edge of the box. It’s damp. Sticky. My stomach turns.
Swallowing against the rising nausea, I pry the lid open.
And then—
I scream.
The sound rips from my throat, raw and uncontrolled, echoing off the walls. My vision blurs as I stagger back, the force of my own horror knocking me off balance. The box slips from my hands, tumbling to the floor.
The contents spill out, hitting the polished wood with a sickening thud.
A severed finger, wrapped in blood-soaked cloth.
My knees buckle. My breath comes in shallow, panicked gasps. The bile rises in my throat, my stomach twisting with unbearable pain.
The blood—so much blood.
It stains the cloth, seeps into the fibers, pools at the edges. The coppery scent fills the air, thick and stifling, wrapping around me like a vice.
I shake my head, forcing my eyes shut, but the image is burned into my mind.
No. No. No.
Who?
Who does it belong to?
The room tilts. My vision narrows. But then—
Footsteps. Heavy. Rushed.
The door slams open.
"Isabella!"
Dominic’s voice slices through the air, sharp with urgency.
I turn, my body trembling, my lips parting, but no words come. I can’t speak.
He moves toward me fast, his gaze snapping to the box, then to the bloodied finger sprawled across the floor.
His expression darkens—not with shock, not with horror.
With rage.
I force a breath through my lips, my chest heaving. My throat is raw from the scream, but I manage to choke out, "Dominic…"
He doesn’t look at me. His jaw is clenched so tight that I can hear the grind of his teeth. His hands curl into fists at his sides, veins pressing against his skin as if he’s holding himself back from unleashing hell.
I follow his gaze—to the note.
I didn’t see it before.
A small, folded piece of paper, resting beside the finger.
Blood stains the edges, the words smudged, but still visible.
The rat’s already inside.
Dominic reaches for the note, his fingers tightening around it until his knuckles turn white. His shoulders are so rigid, it looks like he might snap in half.
His eyes flick to me then—to my shaking hands, the sheer terror I know is written all over my face. His expression shifts, just slightly. Like he wants to comfort me—but he can’t.
Not right now.
Because this?
This is war.
"Who—" I swallow, my voice barely above a whisper. "Whose is it?"
Dominic doesn’t answer.
His silence screams louder than anything.
I take a step back, shaking my head, panic clawing at my ribs. "Tell me."
Still, nothing.
"Dominic!" I snap, my voice cracking. "Tell me whose finger that is!"
His throat bobs, but when he speaks, his voice is deadly.
"I don’t know."
I exhale, shaking my head. "You’re lying."
His eyes darken. "I would never lie about this."
My stomach churns. The room spins.
A million thoughts race through my mind, none of them making sense. Jayden. Charles. Could it be one of them?
I press my fingers to my temples, trying to breathe, trying to ground myself.
"This isn’t just about you anymore, Dominic," I say, my voice steadier than I expect. "You’re not the only one in danger."
His expression sharpens. "I know."
I shake my head, frustration mounting. "Do you? Because it sure as hell feels like you’re trying to handle this alone!"
Dominic moves suddenly, closing the distance between us, his hands gripping my arms. Not hard—but firm.
I freeze.
"Isabella." His voice is low, his breath hot against my skin. "You think I don’t know what this means? You think I don’t know what they’re trying to do? This isn’t just a threat. It’s a message."
I swallow hard. "A message to who?"
His grip doesn’t relax.
"To me."
The finger is not a warning to the organization. It’s not a general threat.
It’s personal.
Someone inside this house—someone close—is working against him.
Against us.
The walls feel like they’re closing in. The house, once a fortress, now feels like a prison, filled with people who may or may not be the enemy.
My breath shudders. "What do we do?"
Dominic’s eyes darken, his expression hardening.
"We find the rat."
He releases me, his body vibrating with fury as he turns back to the desk, staring down at the bloodied package like it’s a puzzle waiting to be solved.
But I see it—the slight tremor in his fingers, the way his throat bobs with a hard swallow.
He’s furious.
But underneath it all… he’s afraid.
Not for himself.
For me.
And that terrifies me more than anything.