Chapter 6
ISABELLA
T he slit in my dress cuts high up my thigh—high enough that one wrong move could be a statement, but not high enough to look unintentional.
The dagger strapped beneath it presses against my skin like a second thought.
It’s light. Sharp. Comfortable. Easy to reach.
Hidden unless I want it seen.
I’ve worn dresses like this before. Fabric that clings like confidence and black as the void I’ve made peace with. But tonight, it isn’t for seduction. It’s for war.
Because Rafael Romanov gave me a task fit for a doll.
Flirt. Smile. Extract intel from a drunk man with loose lips. A man I could disarm in three seconds. Four if I let him speak.
And he had the audacity to make it sound like a test .
Like he didn’t realize I could’ve pulled the trigger that first night with his life in my scope. Like he still doesn’t know how close he came to never breathing again.
I haven’t decided whether that makes him blind… or just arrogant. Either way, it pisses me off.
I pace the length of the living room, heels striking the polished floor in steady rhythm.
My dress moves with me—sleek, backless, daring.
The neckline plunges just enough to draw eyes.
The material shimmers faintly under the warm lights.
It’s my own. My choice. And it tells the world don’t touch unless you’re ready to bleed.
Kellan and Ash sit on the couch like the seasoned operatives they are—relaxed in their suits, but alert beneath it all.
Kellan’s the first to speak.
“You’re going to wear a hole into the floor.”
I don’t stop walking.
“He gave me a child’s mission.”
Ash leans back, one arm slung over the edge of the couch.
“You expected him to give you the location of every Bratva safehouse?”
“I expected him to give me something worthy of my time,” I snap.
Kellan exchanges a glance with Ash before pushing up from the couch and walking toward the bar. He grabs a glass, pours something amber into it, and hands it to me.
“Drink this before you start throwing knives at the walls.”
I take the glass but don’t drink.
“He told me to seduce Romano.”
“And?” Kellan asks. “That’s the intel mission.”
“No,” I say sharply. “That’s his version of it. His assumption. That I’d smile and cross my legs and play pretty until Romano spills a few secrets.”
Ash lifts a brow.
“Are you not?”
I finally stop pacing and turn toward them, glass still in hand.
“No. I’m going to get what I need. But I’m going to do it my way.”
“Which is?”
“A way he won’t forget.”
Kellan watches me carefully. He knows me too well to ask for specifics. He just nods once and says, “Then we’ll keep eyes open.”
Ash smirks. “As always.”
I sip the drink, the burn sliding down slow and sweet.
“Romano’s just the beginning,” I murmur. “He thinks he’s watching me from above. But you know what people never do when they’re in power?”
“What’s that?” Ash asks.
“Look up.”
The dagger presses tighter against my thigh as I move. Not a threat. A reminder. If Rafael wants to test me, he better be ready to lose .
Because I’m done pretending to play his game. I’m going to show him what it looks like when I set the rules.
I down the drink in one swallow. It scorches its way down my throat, but it’s not enough to burn away the irritation crawling beneath my skin.
The glass hits the counter with a quiet, decisive clink.
“Let’s go.”
Kellan stands without a word, adjusting his cufflinks. Ash stretches once, rolls his neck, and follows. No questions. No protests.
They know when I’ve made up my mind. And tonight, my mind is a blade.
The hallway outside my penthouse is silent, the polished floor catching glints of light as our steps echo down to the elevator. My heels hit the marble in perfect rhythm. Me, in front. Kellan and Ash behind me—silent shadows in tailored suits.
As the elevator doors slide open, I feel the hum of it begin.
The shift. The stillness before chaos.
My reflection stares back at me in the mirrored walls—dark dress, darker eyes, and that look on my face that used to scare my instructors.
Controlled. Cold. Focused.
No one would guess what I’m carrying under the fabric. No one would dare.
We descend into the garage. Kellan’s black Maserati sits alone in the far corner, sleek and low and growling even when it’s turned off. The kind of car that announces power without screaming it.
I slide into the back seat without a word. Ash takes the passenger side, already syncing the comms into his earpiece. Kellan climbs into the driver’s seat and starts the engine. The growl fills the silence like a warning.
The moment the tires leave the garage, I let the city swallow us whole.
“Do we know how many factions are expected tonight?” I ask, eyes fixed on the passing skyline.
Kellan’s voice is smooth. Controlled.
“Bratva, obviously. Italians, Albanians, and some whispers about scattered Balkan syndicates wanting a seat at the table.”
“Security?”
“Heavy. Armed men posted throughout the estate. Most of them won’t be allowed into the actual gathering, but they’ll be close enough to start a war if someone sneezes wrong.”
Ash adds, “We’ve got floorplans from a recon two years ago. Doubt it’s changed much—Calderone’s the type who doesn’t like renovations.”
“I want eyes on exits. Cameras. Dead zones.”
“Already mapped,” Ash says. “And I’ll be in your ear the whole time.”
“And Romano?” I murmur.
Kellan smirks without looking at me. “Cocky. Touchy. Weak to praise.”
“And drunk?”
Ash nods. “Ten minutes in, he’ll start bragging. Fifteen, he’ll start slipping.”
“Good,” I say softly. “Then fifteen minutes is all I’ll need.”
Silence falls again, thick with the tension that only comes before a storm. My fingers trace the edge of the slit in my dress, just enough to feel the dagger’s hilt.
It grounds me. It reminds me that this —this assignment, this room full of men with too much power and too little discipline—isn’t a threat. It’s an opportunity.
And I intend to make the most of it.
The mansion appears ahead like a mirage of old money and buried bodies—grand gates, marble columns, warm golden light spilling out of tall windows. Elegant. Lavish. Dangerous.
The kind of place where lies are served with wine.
Kellan parks the car without a word, engine fading to a low hum before cutting off entirely. I step out, smoothing the dress down my thigh as I rise. Eyes forward. Mind sharp.
Tonight, I walk into their world not as prey… But as a storm wrapped in silk.
The moment my heel touches the stone walkway outside Calderone’s estate, I can feel it—the shift in air. Heavier. Tighter. The kind of atmosphere that doesn’t breathe unless you give it permission.
The mansion rises in front of us like something out of an old European fever dream—too polished to feel lived in, too perfect not to be hiding something. The lights cast a warm glow over the marble pillars, but it’s all a show. These people don’t do warmth.
They do control. They do calculation. And tonight… so do I.
Kellan walks beside me, silent in a fitted black suit. Ash lingers behind us, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve, already scanning every window, every shadow.
We don’t speak until we’re a few feet from the doors.
“You know the plan?” Kellan murmurs.
“I make Romano talk.”
“No violence unless it’s necessary.”
“I’ll be polite,” I say. “Until I’m not.”
Ash smirks behind me. “We’ll be in your ear. You get overwhelmed, say the word.”
“You really think I’m going to get overwhelmed?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. They know exactly who I am. Even if Rafael still pretends he doesn’t.
Inside, the air shifts again—cooler now, scented with expensive cologne and polished ego. Music plays low in the background, a haunting string arrangement meant to sound elegant but only makes my skin itch.
I step in first. Alone.
We split the second we pass through the door—Ash disappearing into the shadows on the far side of the ballroom, Kellan moving toward a corridor that likely leads to the security exits.
They don’t look at me. Don’t nod. Don’t speak. We play the part.
Because appearances matter in places like this.
Power moves quiet in these rooms. And tonight, I’m the whisper with teeth.
My heels echo across the polished floor as I walk deeper into the chaos disguised as civility. People in gowns and suits hover near artfully arranged hors d’oeuvres, laughing too hard, drinking too slow. Fake smiles. Real threats.
A server passes close with a tray of champagne flutes and I take one. Not because I want to drink, but because I need something to do with my hands while I watch.
I sip once—barely—then let the glass hang lightly between my fingers as I walk.
That’s when I feel it. The weight of a gaze that burns more than it should and I know it before I see it.
My spine straightens instinctively. My fingers tighten around the glass. And then—slowly—I glance toward the far end of the room.
Rafael.
He’s standing with three other men. Powerful ones. I recognize one of them from a file Ash showed me—Russian old blood. Dangerous. Loyal only to coin and power.
Rafael’s in black. Classic. Understated. But there’s nothing soft about the way he stands. Shoulders squared. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass that hasn’t moved in the last five minutes.
He looks like he owns this room. Because he does. But his eyes… They’re not on them.
They’re on me.
He turns his head, barely. His gaze slides down my body like a slow drag of silk and fire—unapologetic, deliberate—and then, just as quickly, it shifts away.
Like he didn’t look at all. Like I don’t exist here. Like I’m not the woman he’s been pulling strings around for weeks.
But I saw it. The flicker of tension behind his eyes. The slight part of his lips when he looked at my dress.
He’s pretending. And that’s fine. Because two can play that game.
I exhale slowly and take another sip, my eyes scanning the room until they land on him.
Alessio Romano.