Chapter 8 - Isolde
Dawn creeps over the D’Angelo estate, a damp, gray veil of mist clinging to the grounds, the air heavy with the aftermath of last night’s storm.
Rain lingers in soft drips from the eaves, pattering on the stone terrace outside my window, and I stand there, barefoot, my silk robe loose around me.
My skin’s still damp from a shower—scrubbing off the blood, the rain, the chaos of Palermo—but I can’t wash away him.
Azrael Varela. His text glows on my phone, resting on the dresser.
It feels like a tether, a fragile thread tying me to him after I begged him to spare Leonardo, after he fucked me senseless in that alley two nights ago.
My thighs ache, a raw reminder of his cock stretching me, his cum filling me, and my neck stings where he bit me—a purple bruise I’ve hidden with my hair.
I press a hand to the glass, the cold biting my palm, and stare out at the mist-shrouded gardens.
Leonardo’s attack on the Varela stronghold last night lit the war ablaze—smoke still lingers in my memory, gunfire echoing, Azrael’s gun to my brother’s head.
I stepped in, pleaded for Leo’s life, and Azrael listened—for me.
That moment cracked something open, deepened this secret thing between us, an alliance forged in warnings and rescues, sealed with sex and mercy.
But it’s fragile, teetering on lies and blood, and the weight of it presses down, heavier than the mist outside.
Father’s orders clash with my need for Azrael, and now Leonardo’s reckless stupidity has poured fuel on a fire I can’t control.
The door creaks, and Marcella slips in, her golden hair mussed, brown eyes sharp despite the early hour. She’s in a silk slip, barefoot like me, and flops onto my bed with a groan. “You’re up early,” she says, voice thick with sleep. “Or did you not sleep at all after that shitshow?”
“Barely,” I mutter, turning to her, leaning against the sill. “Too much in my head—Leo, the war, him.”
“Him being Varela?” She props herself on an elbow, smirking. “The guy who fucked you in an alley and then spared your idiot brother? You’re in deep, Isolde.”
I laugh—short, strained—and run a hand through my damp hair. “Deeper than you know. He texted me last night—said I owe him. And I do, Marcella. He could’ve killed Leo, but he didn’t—because I asked.”
Her smirk fades, eyes narrowing. “That’s not just an alliance anymore—that’s something else. What are you doing with this?”
“I don’t know,” I admit, pacing to the desk, papers scattered—intel on Varela hits, our countermeasures, all blurred by him.
“Father wants me to betray him, dig out his weaknesses, but I can’t.
Not after the café, not after last night.
We’re supposed to be taking down Salucci together, but Leo’s fucked it all up, and I’m stuck in the middle. ”
“Middle’s a dangerous place,” she says, sitting up, voice softening. “Your brother’s a loose cannon—he’s gonna get you killed or expose you. And Varela—how far does this go?”
I stop, turning to her, my chest tight. “Too far. That night in the alley—it wasn’t just sex.
It was—fuck, it was everything I’ve wanted since Venice, since he matched me word for word.
And last night, when he spared Leo, it’s like he handed me a piece of himself.
I can’t give that back, Marcella—not even for Father. ”
She stares, then sighs, rubbing her face. “You’re playing a game you can’t win. Leo’s attack—everyone’s talking. Your father’s pissed, Leonardo’s gloating, and the Varelas are out for blood. Where does that leave you and your lover boy?”
“Lover boy,” I echo, a bitter laugh escaping, but it sticks in my throat. “It leaves us allied—secretly—against a war that’s spinning out of control. And I’m starting to wonder who’s really pulling the strings.”
Before she can reply, heavy boots thud outside—Father’s stride, unmistakable.
The door swings open, and Alessandro D’Angelo fills the frame, his gray hair slicked back, suit impeccable, green eyes cold as ice.
Marcella scrambles up, muttering an excuse, and slips out, leaving me alone with him.
He steps in, shutting the door with a deliberate click, and the mist outside seems to seep into the room, chilling the room.
“Isolde,” he says, voice smooth but sharp, a blade unsheathed. “Explain last night.”
I straighten, forcing calm, hands clasped behind me to hide their tremble. “Leonardo attacked the Varela docks—unplanned, stupid. I went to stop him, pull him back.”
“Stop him?” He steps closer, eyes narrowing, suspicion glinting like a knife’s edge. “Word is you were there when Varela had him pinned—gun to his head—and you talked him down. Why?”
My throat tightens, but I keep my gaze steady. “He’s my brother. I couldn’t let him die—not like that.”
“Brother or not,” he snaps, voice rising, “he’s a soldier in this family, and you let the enemy walk away. I told you to get close to Varela, find his weaknesses—not play savior.”
“I didn’t—” I start, but he cuts me off, slamming a hand on the desk, papers fluttering.
“Don’t lie to me,” he growls, leaning in, his shadow swallowing me. “I see it—your hesitation, your softness. You’re slipping, Isolde, and I want to know why. What’s he got on you?”
“Nothing,” I say, too quick, heat flushing my cheeks. “I’m doing what you asked—getting close, watching him. Last night was about keeping Leo alive, not Varela.”
He stares, silent, his gaze dissecting me, and I feel it—doubt creeping in, not just in him, but in me.
He’s my father, the man who raised me to be steel, but there’s a hardness in him now, a calculation that doesn’t fit family.
“You’d better be,” he says finally, voice low, turning to the door.
“Because if I find out you’re hiding something—if your loyalty’s split—I’ll cut you out myself. Blood or not.”
The door slams shut, and I’m alone, breath ragged, the damp dawn pressing in.
His threat lingers—cut you out—and it’s not just anger; it’s a warning, a crack in the trust I’ve always assumed.
I sink onto the bed, hands shaking, and wonder—what’s he hiding?
Is he loyal to me, to Leo, to us, or just to power?
***
Fog rolls thick over Rome’s industrial edge, a late-night shroud cloaking the derelict safehouse—a crumbling brick shell, windows boarded, air chilled despite the lingering humidity.
I’m here alone, coat tight against the damp, knife at my hip, gun in hand, chasing a lead from last night’s chaos.
Azrael’s text—Meet me. Got something on Salucci.
—buzzes in my mind, and I’m early, pacing the cracked concrete, my boots echoing in the silence.
Leonardo’s attack lit the war, Azrael’s retaliation nearly ended it, and our alliance—secret, fragile—teeters under the strain.
Father’s words—“Cut you out”—gnaw at me, a splinter of doubt festering, and I need answers, from Azrael, from this.
The door groans open, and he steps in—Azrael, rain-damp hair tousled, black jacket clinging to his broad frame, gray eyes sharp in the dim. My pulse kicks—memories flood: his cock pounding me, his hands bruising me, his gun sparing Leo—and I shove them down, keeping my face cool.
“D’Angelo,” he says, voice rough, stepping closer, the faint scent of leather and smoke hitting me. “You look like hell.”
“Varela,” I reply, holstering my gun, meeting his gaze. “You’re one to talk—blood on your shirt still?”
He smirks, glancing at a smear on his sleeve—Leo’s, maybe—and shrugs. “Comes with the job. You said we’re fucked—here’s why.”
He pulls a crumpled paper from his pocket—intercepted orders, scribbled in code—and hands it to me.
I scan it, decoding fast—Varela routes, D’Angelo safehouses, attack plans, all laid out like a playbook.
My stomach drops. “This isn’t ours—or yours,” I say, voice low. “Someone’s feeding both sides.”
“Leone Salucci,” he says, voice hard, stepping into my space, his heat cutting through the chill. “That prick from the warehouse—he talked before I broke his neck. Salucci’s been hitting us, framing you, hitting you, framing us. Wants us to rip each other apart so he can sweep in.”
I stare at the paper, then him, pieces clicking—Leonardo’s attack, the ambush on Azrael, the chaos spiraling. “He’s the third party,” I mutter, crumpling it in my fist. “Playing us like fucking pawns.”
“Yeah,” he says, eyes locked on mine, too close now, his breath hot against my cheek. “And it’s working—your brother’s a loose cannon, my father’s out for blood. Our alliance—shit, Isolde, it’s cracking.”
I step back, needing air, but the fog’s thick, trapping us. “It’s not cracking,” I snap, voice sharper than I mean. “We’re still here—still together on this. But—” I hesitate, Father’s threat flashing, and my voice drops. “I don’t know who I can trust anymore.”
He frowns, head tilting, rain dripping from his hair. “What’s that mean?”
“My father,” I say, low, raw, the words spilling free. “He’s suspicious—thinks I’m slipping, threatened to cut me out if I’m not loyal. But I’m starting to wonder—is he loyal to me? To Leo? Or just to himself?”
Azrael’s silent, eyes searching mine, then he steps in, hand touching my arm—gentle, but firm, grounding me. “You’re doubting your own blood?”
“Yeah,” I whisper, leaning into his touch, the chill fading under his warmth. “He’s hiding something—I feel it. And Salucci—this fits too well. What if Father’s in on it?”
“Fuck,” he mutters, hand sliding to my shoulder, squeezing. “That’s a dark hole, Isolde. You sure you wanna dig?”
“No,” I admit, meeting his gaze, green clashing with gray. “But I have to. We have to—together. Salucci’s testing us, and if Father’s playing both sides…” I trail off, the thought too heavy, too raw.
He nods slowly, his thumb gently touching my collarbone, a flicker of that alley heat sparking.
“Together,” he echoes, voice low, fierce.
“We dig—find Salucci, gut him, figure out your father. But this—” His hand tightens, pulling me closer, chest to chest, rain-damp fabric sticking between us. “This doesn’t break.”
I swallow, heart pounding, his closeness a drug—his scent, his touch, the memory of him inside me. “It’s a lie,” I murmur, hands fisting his jacket. “Hiding this—us—from them. In the dark, it’s all lies.”
“Then let it be,” he says, voice rough, leaning in, forehead on mine. “We’re better at lies than they are. Salucci’s the enemy—your father, mine, they’re just noise. We’ve got this.”
His breath brushes my lips, and I’m trembling—not from cold, but him, this bond we’ve forged in sex and blood and mercy. I nod slowly, gripping him tighter. “Okay. We find him—end this.”
He pulls back, just enough, eyes fierce. “Good. Got a lead—Salucci’s meeting a contact, outskirts. You in?”
“In,” I say, stepping away, the fog swirling as I turn to go. “Text me the spot.”
“Will do,” he calls, and I feel his stare—hot, heavy—as I slip into the night, the chill settling back, fog cloaking my steps.
My phone buzzes as I reach my car—Stay sharp.
We’re not done.—and I smile, bitter, Father’s threat clashing with Azrael’s promise.
Salucci’s the puppet master, pulling strings I can’t see, and my father—my blood—might be tangled in them.
Doubt festers, our alliance strains, but Azrael and I—we’re tied, a secret forged in lies, and I’m not letting it go.