Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
LEA
The phone slips from my fingers, bouncing once on the concrete with a hollow crack. The plastic splinters; the battery pops free. My hands won’t stop shaking. The adrenaline that carried me through the call to Nico now recedes in a rushing wave, leaving my knees weak.
But beneath the tremors, my determination is a cold, hard thing in my belly.
I made my choice the moment I saw the proof of my father’s murder.
The grainy surveillance photo of him with Nico’s handwritten note: Eliminate.
Make it look accidental. Six years of suspicion confirmed in a single, damning sentence.
Dante Moretti stands a few feet away, watching me with arms crossed. His face, usually animated with a dangerous charisma, is now all professional assessment. When our eyes meet, he gives me a gruff nod of approval.
“Good work,” he says, his voice resounding in the cavernous space of the abandoned steel mill. “Now for the staging.”
He gestures, and a pair of his men materialize from the shadows. They guide me to a rusty metal chair positioned in the center of the vast factory floor, directly beneath the single harsh pool of light.
“Sit,” one of them commands. I comply.
The taller one produces coils of rough rope while his partner retrieves a small, dense package from a duffel bag.
It’s a block of plastic explosive, a remote timer crudely taped to its surface.
My blood runs cold. The second man kneels, securing the device to the underside of my chair with heavy-duty zip ties.
The soft click of the plastic locking into place is the loudest sound I’ve ever heard.
He fiddles with the timer, then gives his partner a nod.
His partner takes my wrists, pulling them behind the chair back.
The rope bites into my skin as they secure me.
Not brutal, but snug enough to chafe and leave marks—physical evidence of a captivity that was supposed to be a performance, not a suicide mission.
The cold, hard thought of the bomb is a terrifying reality.
“Good,” Moretti says, checking his watch. “That’ll do.”
I brace myself, assuming this is the prelude to the ambush. But Moretti is already turning away, gesturing to his men. “Alright, that’s our cue. We’re out.”
My head snaps up. “What?” My voice is a strangled cry. “The bomb! You’re leaving me here with a bomb?”
I twist in the chair, pulling against the ropes until they cut into my skin. “Moretti, wait! This wasn’t the deal!”
He doesn’t even turn around, just waves a dismissive hand over his shoulder. “Isabel will brief you,” he calls back, his voice already distant.
The massive door groans open, flooding the dark space with a brief rectangle of twilight before slamming shut with a reverberating boom. I hear car engines start, then fade.
They’re gone. They’ve actually left me here to die.
Panic, raw and absolute, claws its way up my throat.
I throw my weight against the ropes, twisting and pulling until my wrists are raw, my shoulders screaming in protest. It’s useless.
The knots are professional, unyielding. I can feel the solid block of the device beneath my seat, a silent promise of oblivion.
It will go off when Nico tries to untie me.
We’ll die together. The thought is a fresh wave of horror. This isn’t justice. It’s a slaughter.
“Isabel!” I scream, the name tearing from my throat, a desperate, hopeless plea into the vast emptiness.
From the edge of the light, she emerges. She circles my chair, her heels clicking a steady rhythm that emphasizes the surrounding emptiness.
“A change of plans?” I spit, the words laced with terror. “You left me here to die! There’s a bomb under this chair!”
Isabel holds up a hand, a gesture of calming patience, though her eyes are alight with amusement at my panic.
“Darling, breathe. Theatrics are only effective when all the actors are in on the script.” She taps the device under my chair with the toe of her elegant shoe.
“The bomb is a dud. It’s missing a wire.
But to Nico, it’ll look authentic; only an expert can spot that it’s rigged to malfunction. ”
She crouches, her gaze locks with mine. “Moretti didn’t leave you to die.
He left you here to be saved . Think, Lea.
His men just staged a clumsy, obvious kidnapping, and conveniently dropped a phone for you to use to contact him.
Nico knows he’s walking into a trap and will take precautions.
But when he finds you here, tied up with a bomb literally strapped to your chair—from his perspective, Moretti is trying to kill you both.
He will see you not as a potential conspirator, but as his fellow victim, the woman who was seconds away from dying with him. ”
Her voice drops, becoming intimate and conspiratorial. “Recently, you saved his life by shooting the man who was about to kill him. Tonight, he gets to return the favor. He gets to play the hero and save you .”
I can hardly believe what she’s saying.
Isabel stands up. “This is psychological warfare. It’s quiet, precise, and it uses his own feelings against him. His strength is his need to protect you. His weakness is that he’s starting to believe you’re his to protect. We are giving him the ultimate proof that you are on his side.”
The new strategy settles in my mind; its cruelty is a terrifying, brilliant thing. “So when he ‘rescues’ me... he’ll trust me completely.”
“Exactly.” A flicker of triumph in her eyes. “He will take you back, believing you are a loyal, terrified victim. He will believe you are finally, truly his. And in that moment of supreme arrogance, you will lead him to the real slaughter.”
“Where?” My throat is dry.
“The heart of his kingdom. His office at Purgatorio.” She stands and paces. “I have a man inside. A bartender. At your signal, he will unlock the private service elevator. Moretti will come up alone. No bloody firefight, just an assignation.”
Her eyes lock on mine. “Your job is to provide the distraction. Seduce him. Get him on his desk, where he feels most powerful. Get him naked, unarmed, lost in you.”
I stare at her, the audacity of the plan leaving me breathless. It’s not just murder; it’s a complete violation, turning his throne room into his tomb.
Seeing the conflict on my face, Isabel’s demeanor shifts. “But that’s for tomorrow,” she purrs, stepping closer again. “Tonight, we have a little time.” She runs a finger along my jawline. “Tell me something, Lea. Have you ever been with a woman?”
The question is so jarring I can only stare. I force a dismissive tone. “Once. In college. I wasn’t impressed.”
A slow, knowing smile spreads across her face. “Perhaps she wasn’t the right woman.” She leans in, her voice dropping to a husky tone. “Or perhaps,” she murmurs, her lips brushing my ear, “she didn’t know how to challenge you.”
Before I can respond, her mouth is on mine. The kiss is nothing like Nico’s punishing claims. It’s confident, sensual, and expertly teasing. My mind screams power play, manipulation , but my body, bound and helpless, betrays me.
Isabel breaks the kiss, moving her lips to the sensitive skin below my ear. Her teeth graze my neck, sending a confusing jolt of pleasure through me. A small sound escapes my throat, close enough to a moan to make her smile against my skin. I can sense her satisfaction.
“You respond so beautifully,” she says softly. “I can see why he’s obsessed with you.”
The mention of Nico cuts through the haze. It reminds me where I am, what I’m doing, and what’s at risk. Revenge. Not... whatever this is.
Isabel pulls away. There’s a flicker of triumph in her eyes as she takes in my flushed cheeks. She checks an elegant watch on her wrist.
“As much as I’d love to continue this lesson,” she says with genuine regret, “your fiancé is notoriously punctual. I have to go.”
She straightens her suit jacket, all composure, as if the heated moment never happened. I’m left reeling, my senses in chaos.
Isabel leans in one last time. “Don’t worry,” she says, her voice a low promise that sends another unwelcome tremor through me. “When he’s dealt with, you and I will finish what we started.”
She straightens up, but instead of leaving, she pulls a black silk scarf from her pocket. “One last detail,” she says, all business again, though her eyes dance with something else entirely. “We have to make the scene convincing. Nico will expect to find you silenced.”
She unfolds the silk. It’s soft and expensive.
Before I can protest, she expertly fits it into my mouth, the fabric a smooth intrusion.
Her fingers are deft as she ties it securely behind my head, the knot tight.
Her knuckles brush against the sensitive skin of my neck, a final, deliberate touch that has nothing to do with staging and everything to do with power.
“There,” she says, stepping back to admire her work. Her eyes travel from the gag, down the ropes binding my body, a flicker of dark satisfaction in her gaze. “Perfect. The terrified captive, unable to even scream for her hero.”
With a final, lingering look that feels like a physical caress, Isabel turns. Her heels click a steady rhythm on the concrete as she walks away, the sound repeating in the vast space until it fades into oppressive quiet.
And just like that, I am alone. Bound, gagged, and waiting in the dark.