Chapter 15
The crash of glass shattering makes me flinch.
It comes from down the hall—from Dante’s office. A heartbeat later, raised voices follow, sharp and cutting.
Alessandro’s fury.
Dante’s rage.
My name somewhere in the middle.
I stand frozen in the hall outside the kitchen, staring at the closed door while my pulse hammers in my ears.
They’re arguing about me.
The air feels too thin. Too dangerous.
I don’t think. I move.
My feet hit the hardwood hard as I sprint down the hall, slipping into my room and slamming the lock into place. My hands shake as I grab my phone from the nightstand—screen lighting up with a flood of missed calls and messages.
Dad. Danny. Casey. Miles.
I ignore them all. There’s only one call that matters right now.
Miles picks up on the first ring, voice bright with the kind of excitement that makes me sick.
“Isabella! Jesus, I was wondering when you’d call. The article’s blowing up—front page on three syndicates, trending across—”
“I didn’t send you that information.”
The words come out as a whisper, shaking, but deadly serious.
He laughs like he didn’t hear me right. “What?”
“I didn’t send you that information,” I repeat, lower now, because I swear I can hear footsteps outside my door. “None of it came from me.”
Silence. I can picture the blood draining from his face.
“Isa, what are you talking about?”
I move fast—into the bathroom, shutting and locking that door, too. My reflection looks like someone else’s—wide eyes, hair falling loose, a tremor in my hands that won’t stop.
“Listen to me,” I hiss. “I didn’t send it. I didn’t email you, I didn’t attach anything. How did you get it?”
He hesitates. “I—I got it from your account. Last night. Same as always. Timestamp, signature, headers… it all checked out. Isa, you’re scaring me.”
“It’s fake. Someone used my credentials. You need to retract it.”
“Retract it?” His voice cracks like he’s trying to hold onto reason. “You realize that would look like a confession? The mayor’s office is already denying the story, and your byline is the only thing keeping it alive. If I pull it, we look like liars—like the paper’s compromised.”
“You are compromised,” I snap. “That article is a setup. You need to pull it, Miles, now.”
“I can’t. Not without—”
A bang rattles the bedroom door. I freeze, heart seizing.
Not Dante’s voice.
Alessandro’s.
“Open the door, Isabella.”
My pulse spikes. “Miles, listen to me. I need screenshots—everything. The email, the headers, the attachments. I need the IP address it came from. Send it to my backup.”
“Isa, are you—what’s happening? Are you in danger?”
I can hear the panic rising in his voice, but the pounding is louder now, the sound of something heavy slamming into the lock.
“I’m fine,” I lie, voice shaking. “Just do it. Please.”
The next hit splinters the wood.
“Miles, send it!”
“Open the damn door,” he snarls, slamming his hand against the bathroom door. “Now!”
He’s still shouting something when I hang up, stuffing the phone against my chest just as the lock gives way and the door bursts open.
Alessandro fills the doorway, eyes like ice and fire all at once.
I swallow hard, chest rising and falling too fast. The sound of my heartbeat drowns out everything else.
Before I can take a breath, his hand wraps around my arm.
“Let me go!” I twist, trying to pull free, but his grip only tightens.
“Who were you talking to?”
“No one!”
“Bullshit.”
“Let me go! You’re hurting me!”
“Not as much as you’re hurting him,” Alessandro spits, dragging me down the hallway, his fingers biting into my skin.
I stumble, nearly falling as he shoves me through the doorway of Dante’s office.
Dante’s behind the desk, half in shadow, his jaw clenched, eyes colder than I’ve ever seen them.
All that warmth that lived there before—the man who brushed Sofia’s hair, who whispered principessa like a prayer, who watched me sleep last night—it’s gone.
Alessandro releases me with a rough shove, sending me stumbling forward. He tosses my phone onto the desk like evidence at a crime scene.
“She was on the phone with someone,” he says tightly. “Still trying to cover her tracks. You can’t trust her. We need to take her to the warehouse.”
My heart stops.
Warehouse.
I know what that means.
My throat goes dry, but I force myself to look up.
Dante’s gaze finds mine.
Ruthless.
Unforgiving.
Cold enough to make the room feel smaller.
A shiver runs through me, but I refuse to let him see me break.
I straighten my shoulders, raise my chin, and meet his eyes head-on.
“Then ask me yourself,” I whisper.
But he doesn’t.
He stares—silent, deadly, and unreadable.
And that’s somehow worse than if he’d pulled the trigger.