Isabella
We work through the morning and into the afternoon.
At first, I tell myself I am only listening to absorb the details Davide lays out.
There is no sense in overstepping and taking control of a plan when I do not yet know where the mess lies, which men have betrayed him, and which parts of his territory have already changed hands.
I write everything down because my hands need something to do. If I stop moving them, I might reach for Matteo even though he is sitting only a few feet away, curled against the side of the couch with a tablet balanced in his lap.
One of Davide’s men brought it to him after breakfast, along with headphones and a soft blanket folded over his lap.
It comforts me just a little to see him being taken care of.
However, what doesn’t is that the longer Davide talks, the less I can pretend the old rhythm does not come back to me. By the time his second cup of coffee has gone cold beside him, I am no longer simply taking notes.
I am moving pieces across the board in my head. I am already seeing which men will fold under pressure and which will bend beneath money and who will smile while selling both sides to the same bidder.
The realization makes my stomach twist because it feels too natural to fall into these old habits.
For years I tried to convince myself that whatever my father taught me had died with Isabella Russo. Apparently, sometimes, those traits simply hibernate, patient as winter, until the world demands for them to rise again.
Davide leans back into the couch, his expression tight from fatigue and restrained fury.
“The Contis are the ones who have been pushing their way into my territory. I am unsure when they began to view my syndicate as their enemy. But over the last two years, I have been doing everything I can to stop their advancement.”
Even though I knew it was coming, my hand tightens around the pen, hard enough that the plastic creaks softly between my fingers.
Vittorio Conti has always been dangerous. I knew that even when I was still a girl listening from the shadows of my father’s study.
He trusted few people fully, but there was a special kind of stillness that washed over him whenever Vittorio’s name came up in conversation. On the outside, they were allies working toward a common goal. But behind closed doors, my father always told a different story.
Vittorio, he once told me, is not the type to betray you to your face. He will do so with a smile on his face and an arm behind his back. When he reaches for you with that hand, it will not be for a handshake.
I was sixteen when he said that, old enough to understand what he was implying and also too young to understand the depth and gravity behind his words. I had been under the delusional impression that our family could never be on the receiving end of the Contis’ desire for infinite expansion.
Now I know firsthand how naive I had truly been back then.
“I doubt they see you as an enemy,” I say.
Davide’s brows draw together.
I force my grip on the pen to loosen before it snaps in my hand and betrays more than I want him to see. “I would wager they are viewing this as an expansion opportunity rather than punishing your syndicate for something.”
A complicated look passes over his face. Not surprise, exactly, more like something he did not want confirmed and now has no choice but to accept. I do not blame him for feeling troubled.
If there is one thing to worry about in a situation like this, it is unpredictability. If something had happened to give the Contis reason to incite violence against the Bianchis, then at least their actions would have merit.
Not moral merit, of course. A strategic one.
That kind of violence can be negotiated because it wants something specific, whether that be payment with money, blood, or an apology for whatever slight has been deemed worthy enough to burn bridges.
But expansion?
That is a hunger that does not negotiate with the hand it intends to bite.
Davide sits forward slowly, elbows resting on his knees. “You think this is ambition.”
“I think the Contis’ appetite has grown tired of what they currently have. They are looking for something new to devour.”
His mouth tightens while he watches me silently.
I continue. “If Vittorio wanted compensation for something, he would have demanded payment already. If he wanted revenge, he would’ve named his price. None of those things have happened, so that leads me to believe what he really wants is what he cannot have.”
“Every man has a number,” he says.
I shrug. “Not every man wants money, though. He wants your territory simply because he believes he can take it from you. There is no version of this where you both shake hands and agree to a ceasefire.”
Davide’s gaze hardens at that.
The door to the study bursts open without warning.
The sound cracks through the room like a gunshot, slamming against the walls and tearing straight through the fragile quiet that’s descended over the room.
Matteo flinches so hard beside me that his tablet nearly slips from his hands.
I turn and grab him, pulling him into my lap to shield him with my arms. His small hands clutch at my blouse, fingers twisting in the fabric as his head buries into my chest.
I feel his breath stutter against me, and something primal tears open inside me.
Davide pushes to his feet instantly.
All trace of the man who had been sitting across from me discussing strategy disappears.
The tiredness leaves his face. The faint softness he had allowed just moments before has vanished. What remains is a syndicate boss.
The three enforcers stop just inside the study, their bodies tense, one of them still breathing too hard from whatever sprint brought them here.
That alone sends a chill racing down my spine.
These enforcers have likely seen men beg, bleed, and die without their faces so much as twitching in response. Right now, they look shaken.
Davide’s gaze cuts across them. “What is it?”
One of them steps forward. He is younger than the others, though not young enough to be excused for the way his throat works before he speaks. “There’s been a situation at the front gates.”
My heart squeezes hard enough to hurt, eyes darting to Davide, looking for confirmation that I am not the only one feeling the shift in the air as if the entire room seems to suddenly brace itself for the impact of whatever information is about to be spilled.
I find his expression tightening further.
“What kind of situation?” he asks.
The first enforcer hesitates.
It lasts less than a second, but in that moment, my mind becomes a horribly efficient machine.
It churns out one horrific situation after another, all of them ending with Matteo and me being ripped away from the Bianchi estate as Davide bleeds out on the floor at someone else’s feet.
A second enforcer steps in to speak. “Elio Conti is here… He is asking to be let in.”
For a moment, I forget how to breathe.
My fingers dig tighter into Matteo’s back, not hard enough to hurt him but hard enough that I have to force myself to loosen my hold. My heart gives one violent thump, then another, each beat tightening the knot in my stomach.
Why the hell would he be here?
How did he find us?
How does he know we are with Davide?
Did someone follow us?
Did Davide have a leak in his ranks?
Did Elio trace the stolen car somehow? Did he have eyes on me? On the road from the beginning?
The questions come too quickly, each one worse than the last. I suddenly feel exposed, every choice I have made since leaving our old life laid bare beneath a spotlight I cannot escape.
I thought Davide’s estate meant walls and safety, a little time to breathe before the past found another way to come back.
Somehow, Elio has found us in under twenty-four hours.
Davide curses under his breath. “How many men did he arrive with?”
The first guard speaks this time. “He’s alone.”
For a moment, even Davide looks caught off balance. I have spent the entire day remembering how to read powerful men like him, and Davide’s surprise flashes like a knife in candlelight before he locks it back down.
Alone. That sounds absurd even with how intense this room has grown. Elio Conti does not walk into enemy territory alone unless he is either desperate, arrogant, or has something more lethal than his men protecting his back.
Davide’s eyes narrow. “Alone?”
“Yes, sir.”
“No vehicle behind him? No second car waiting down the road to watch him be let in?”
“Not that we’ve seen,” the enforcer says. “We checked the cameras and swept the outer feeds. It’s just him.”
Why?
That question bursts into my mind like a valve finally giving way under intense pressure.
Why would he do something so reckless?
Why put himself at Davide’s mercy when his father is already pushing into Bianchi territory, creating a hostile takeover?
Why come to the house of a man he has every reason to consider an enemy with no visible backup, no show of force, no protection except for his name?
Davide’s gaze flicks to me for a brief moment before returning to his enforcers. “Did he say why he came?”
This time, the second enforcer hesitates.
Davide’s voice drops to a growl. “Speak.”
“He said he is here for Isabella.”
What?
I have no idea how to grapple with that. I hate being studied right now. I hate the way everyone in the room seems to be waiting for me to provide a reason, an explanation, some neat little confession that will turn Elio’s arrival into something that makes sense.
I do not know why, and that chokes me more than certainty could have. If he had come to threaten me, I could meet that with force of my own.
Davide would have no problem providing me with the necessary tools to wage war against someone threatening the one person he has in his corner willing to help him try and dismantle the Conti regime.
If Elio had come as Vittorio’s mouthpiece offering to negotiate terms before things got to the point of no return, then that would be understandable.
I could find the agenda underneath the calculated move, revealing what the true motive is behind passive words.
But this… this is not at all what I could have possibly expected.
“Isabella, did you know he would come?” Davide asks me quietly.
I shake my head. “I had no idea he even knew where we were. I had no idea anyone knew. We lost any tail long before I came here.”
He absorbs that without flinching, though his eyes harden slightly.
A leak, then.
Or Elio is better at finding ghosts than any of us wanted to admit.
Neither option comforts me.
Davide gestures toward the enforcers. “Restrain him and wand him before letting him past the gates. Bring him down to the interrogation room once you can confirm he isn’t bugged.”
“Yes, sir,” they echo back at him.