Chapter 5
The city feels different when you’re hunted.
Even the air tastes wrong—like metal and rain and someone else’s breath.
I walk home with grocery bags cutting into my fingers, my phone buzzing nonstop in my pocket. I ignore it, again.
Danny’s called nine times. My boss has called six.
The mayor’s office leaked my investigation, there was a drive-by, and now half the city thinks I fabricated the whole story.
Every headline says my name.
Every shadow looks like a threat.
I don’t even realize I’ve stopped paying attention to the street until a voice inside my head whispers—You’re not safe here.
I glance up. The street’s quieter than it should be. My building’s only a block away. I pick up my pace.
The phone buzzes again. Danny.
I answer this time, exhaling hard. “What?”
“Finally,” he says, breathless. “Where are you? Please tell me you’re not home.”
“I’m walking—”
“Jesus, Isabella, go inside somewhere. Anywhere. People are saying there was another threat. You have to stop this—”
“I’m not hiding.” My voice comes out sharper than I mean. “They tried to scare me, but it didn’t work.”
“This isn’t about scaring you!” He’s shouting now, panic in his voice. “You don’t get it, Isa. These people don’t make warnings twice. Please, for once in your life, just—”
Something slams into my back. Hard.
The phone flies from my hand, clattering across the sidewalk. I don’t even have time to turn before an arm wraps around my waist, yanking me backward.
“What the—”
A rough hand covers my mouth. “Easy, lady. Don’t make this hard.”
My heart spikes. Panic flares so bright it burns. I twist, kick, bite—but there’s more than one of them.
Gloved hands. Hard grips. A van door slides open behind me.
They’re not cops. Not random. Trained.
I hear one mutter, “Watch her head,” right before crack—pain explodes at my temple as they drag me in.
“Shit—she hit—”
Everything tilts. I taste blood, copper, and adrenaline. My vision swims, spots dancing across it.
They shove me into the seat. I fight back purely on instinct, arms and legs wild. When one of them grabs my wrist to pin me, I jerk away—and my hand slams against the metal doorframe just as it closes.
The door snaps shut on my fingers.
A sharp, searing pain rips through me. I cry out, the sound raw and strangled.
“Careful, Christ—her hand’s in the door!”
The latch pops, and I pull my hand back fast—blood wells along my knuckles. My breath shakes as I cradle it against my chest, vision blurring.
“What do you want from me?” I demand, voice hoarse.
No one answers. The van lurches forward, tires squealing.
My heart pounds so hard it hurts. Every survival instinct screams at once—run, fight, scream—but logic edges in, whispering what I already know.
If they wanted me dead, I’d be dead.
This is something else.
I force my breathing steady, fingers throbbing as I flex them. My head’s pounding, blood dripping down the side of my face.
They think they can scare me.
They think they can use pain to make me quiet.
They have no idea who they’re dealing with.
I lean back against the seat, jaw clenched, pulse slowing.
If I survive this—and I will—I’ll find every single one of them.
And I’ll ruin them.
The van stops. The door slides open, and cold air hits my face.
We’re not at a police station. Not a warehouse, either. A private garage—luxury cars, marble floors, the faint scent of expensive cologne.
Two men step out first, silent and armed—one gestures for me to move.
“Where are we?”
No answer.
I laugh, low and sharp. “Not big on conversation, huh? That makes sense. Real men of mystery.” I roll my eyes and move towards the elevator.
They exchange a look but say nothing, ushering me through a private elevator. My pulse climbs again.
When the doors open, I stop breathing for half a second.
Penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling glass. City lights spilling across polished floors. It smells like cedar and power.
They shove me forward anyway.
“Don’t touch me,” I snap, jerking my arm free. Pain shoots through my fingers, but I ignore it. “Do you have any idea who I am?”
“Yeah,” one mutters. “That’s the problem.”
I spin on him, blood still trailing from my temple. “You think this is going to stop me? You think some overpaid goons and a fancy view are enough to—”
The door slams open behind me.
And suddenly, the room shifts.
He fills the doorway.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Charcoal dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms.
Eyes like smoke and storm clouds.
Dante Moretti.
I’ve seen him before—at charity galas, across courtrooms, in news photos where men like him wear smiles like masks.
But up close… he’s something else entirely.
Cold. Controlled. Terrifying.
And somehow, still breathtaking.
Every instinct in my body screams danger, but my breath catches anyway.
He moves like a predator who doesn’t need to hunt—because the world already kneels.
The men who brought me here straighten, shoulders stiff.
“What the hell is this?” I demand, trying to sound steadier than I feel. “You send people to kidnap me, and now you’re just going to stand there and—”
“Be quiet,” he says softly.
The words are barely above a whisper, but they cut through me like a blade.
“Excuse me?”
He steps closer. The air feels thinner.
“You’re here because you don’t know when to stop,” he says. “Because you couldn’t mind your own business.”
“I was doing my job,” I snap.
His jaw ticks. “Your job is to write about the world. Not to walk into it with your throat bared.”
“You mean not walk into yours?”
Something dark flashes in his eyes. “Exactly.”
I square my shoulders, refusing to step back. “If you think I’m going to be intimidated by a man who hides behind armed guards and blood money—”
He takes another step forward, and I stop talking.
Because now I can see him clearly—see the shadow of rage in the sharp lines of his face, the faint stubble along his jaw, the weight of something far more dangerous than anger burning behind his eyes.
And then I see it—that shift in his expression. His gaze goes from my eyes to my temple.
“Who did that?” His voice drops lower, dangerous in a different way.
“I don’t know. Maybe your guys.”
His brow furrows. “My men?”
“Yeah.” My voice trembles despite myself. “One of them slammed my head into a car door. Another shut my hand in it. You must be so proud.”
The room goes still.
For the first time since this started, he looks less like the devil and more like a man trying not to break something fragile.
He takes a slow step toward me.
Then another.
I tell myself not to move.
Not to show fear.
He stops right in front of me, his shadow swallowing mine.
But when he raises his hand, instinct betrays me. I flinch.
A sharp breath escapes him—a sound like frustration and regret tangled together.
And instead of striking me, he brushes a thumb gently against the cut on my forehead.
The touch is barely there—warm, careful. His expression darkens as he pulls his hand back, his fingertips faintly smeared red.
Then he reaches for my injured hand.
I hesitate, pulse hammering. But he doesn’t wait. His fingers close around mine, firm but gentle as he turns my wrist to inspect the bruises already blooming across my knuckles.
His hands are steady at first—then I notice the slight tremor in them. The faint, restrained shake that betrays the calm mask he wears.
He’s furious.
Not at me.
At someone else.
His jaw tightens, and when he speaks, it’s not to me. It’s to the room.
“Who the fuck hurt her?”