Chapter Twenty-Eight
The ropes burned against Isla’s wrists as she twisted, testing the weak spots in the bindings. Every second that passed was one step closer to whatever fate her father had planned for her, and she refused to let him win. The murmurs outside the door had quieted, but she knew the guards were still there, waiting for the next order.
She forced herself to stay calm, to think. Leonardo had underestimated her, thinking her weak, thinking she would sit still and wait to be used as a pawn in his game. But she wasn’t that girl anymore. She was a fighter. And she wasn’t going to let him decide how her story ended.
With one final sharp tug, the fibers of the rope frayed enough for her to slip her right hand free. Pain flared in her wrists, but she didn’t stop. She worked fast, freeing her other hand before carefully untying her ankles. The moment she was loose, she rose to her feet, her body sore but fueled by adrenaline.
She had to get out. Now.
She moved to the door, pressing her ear against the wood. Silence. The guards had left—maybe to report to her father, maybe to take a break. Either way, she wouldn’t get another chance like this. She reached for the ornate letter opener on the nearby desk and slipped it into her palm before easing the door open just enough to peek through. The hallway was dimly lit, empty except for the flickering light at the far end.
Her heart pounded as she stepped into the corridor, keeping low, staying in the shadows. The house was large, but she had paid attention when they had brought her in. She knew which way led to the main exit. She just had to move fast enough.
A voice echoed from a nearby room, making her press herself against the wall.
"Leonardo wants her moved before midnight. We leave soon."
The other guard replied, lower, rougher. "Not until Leonardo gives the order. We wait."
Isla clenched her jaw. She was running out of time.
She took a deep breath and moved. Silent, calculated steps carried her down the hall, past the open doorway where two men sat talking. She kept her head down, resisting the urge to run, knowing that speed wasn’t her ally yet—stealth was. She slipped past them, reaching the staircase that led down to the main floor.
She was almost free.
Then a door slammed open.
"She’s gone!" A voice shouted from behind her.
Isla didn’t think. She ran.
She bolted down the stairs, her feet barely touching the ground as shouts exploded behind her. The front door was in sight, the cool night air just beyond the entrance. She pushed forward, but heavy footsteps thundered behind her.
A hand grabbed her wrist.
She spun, driving the letter opener into the man’s shoulder. He howled, staggering back. She yanked the door open and threw herself outside, the cold night air hitting her like a slap. But she didn’t stop. She ran.
The villa grounds were vast, she knew she had to reach the tree line. If she could get into the woods, she could disappear. She barely made it twenty feet before headlights blinded her.
An SUV skidded to a stop in front of her, doors flying open.
Gunshots rang out.
Isla ducked, throwing herself to the ground as bullets tore through the air. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she turned her head, just in time to see the familiar figure of Matteo stepping out of the SUV, gun raised, his face a mask of pure, lethal rage.
Relief crashed over her like a wave.
But then she saw the man standing in front of him, his body slumped, blood pooling beneath him.
She knew that face.
Shock paralyzed her as she realized who Matteo had just killed.
It was Nico.
Her breath hitched, disbelief slamming into her chest like a freight train. Nico—the man who had been like a brother to her, who had taught her how to shoot when she was young, who had once promised to protect her no matter what—lay lifeless on the ground, a bullet hole clean through his temple. Blood pooled beneath him, staining the dirt, dark and final.
"No," she whispered, stumbling to her feet, her entire body trembling. Her mind raced, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. Nico had been loyal. Nico had always been there for her. He would have never betrayed her. Would he?
Matteo turned, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—something cold, something resolved. "Isla—"
She took a step back, shaking her head. "Why?" Her voice cracked, disbelief strangling her words. "He wasn’t your enemy."
Matteo didn’t lower his gun. "He made his choice."
Tears stung her eyes. "And what was that? Protecting me? Because that’s what he did, Matteo. He protected me before you even knew my name. And now he’s dead."
"He was the traitor," Matteo said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. His dark gaze locked onto hers, unyielding. "Did you ever wonder how your father always knew everything about you? Who do you think he sent to broker the deal that was meant to end your life? Why do you think he was at the wedding, Isla?" He let the silence stretch, the weight of his words settling over her like a noose. Then, with quiet finality, he delivered the final blow. "That’s not all. He was the one who took you from your bed—carried you out of my house. All on your father’s orders."
Isla shook her head, refusing to believe it. "No. You’re wrong."
Matteo took a step forward, but she stumbled back. Her pulse roared in her ears, her breath coming too fast, too shallow.
"Isla—"
She turned and ran.
Not toward him. Away from him.
Because in that moment, everything her father had said, every warning, every doubt, came crashing back.
Matteo didn’t love. Matteo owned.
And she wasn’t sure she wanted to be his anymore.