Nothing obvious, nothing provable. Just enough to sow doubt, to make the Brunos look inward, start watching their own with suspicion.
Next, a photograph. Grainy, but clear enough: Isabella on the sidewalk outside my building, her face half hidden by her hair. I leak it to an old contact, knowing it’ll find its way to the Bruno house, passed hand-to-hand with all the weight of an accusation.
The photo is a message, one only her family will understand. I want them to start wondering, questioning, turning on her just a little. Not enough to break her yet. Just enough to make her sweat.
All the while, I keep my distance. Let the rumors do the work. The Brunos pride themselves on loyalty, on keeping the bloodline pure and the secrets locked up tight. They won’t see this coming. Not until I want them to. Not until I decide the game is over.
I imagine her face when she realizes the trap, how all her careful lies will snap shut around her. She’ll see how easily her family’s trust is shaken, how quickly they’ll question her when the scent of Russian betrayal hangs in the air. It’s almost too easy.
But there’s one thing that won’t let me sleep. One image that returns again and again in the quiet between midnight and dawn: Isabella’s face on the terrace, trembling, her breath stuttering under my hand. The way she looked at me—fear and anger and longing all tangled together. That combination is intoxicating, my favorite kind of weapon. I’ve used it a hundred times, watched people crumble beneath it.
With her, though, the effect is different. The memory stirs something deep. Something old and ugly and addictive. I want to see her falter, to watch the realization dawn in her eyes as the truth closes in. I want her to beg, to fight, to surrender all at once.
Control. That’s what this is about. Revenge, yes, for the games she played at my expense. But more than that—the pleasure of knowing she can’t escape me. That she’s trapped, not just by family, but by the way I make her feel. The way I want her to feel.
I spend the next few days tightening the net. A message here, a favor called in there. Every move calculated, every rumor carefully fed until it takes on a life of its own. The Brunos are slow to notice, at first.
Then I hear from one of my men that Vittorio has started asking questions. That Matteo has taken to following Isabella in his spare time, watching her with suspicion. It’s working. The cracks are beginning to show.
I could end it whenever I want. I could destroy her world with a single phone call. But I hold back. There’s more satisfaction in watching her squirm, in letting her realize, bit by bit, that she’s never been in control.
Late at night, alone in the silent office, I remember the heat of her skin under my palm, the flicker of defiance in her eyes even as she trembled. I want to break her, but I want her to want it too. That’s the line I walk—the place where fear becomes desire, and loyalty becomes surrender.
My phone buzzes. It’s another update from Roman, another whisper from the Brunos’ inner circle. It’s all going exactly to plan.
Soon, Isabella will know the price of crossing me. When she does, she’ll have nowhere left to run.
It doesn’t take long for my efforts to bear fruit. By the end of the week, the right people are whispering the wrong things in the Bruno halls.
I hear from a source that Isabella’s name has begun to appear in tense, closed-door conversations, her absence at dinners questioned, her whereabouts scrutinized. Matteo is angrier, more paranoid, always a step behind her, and Vittorio’s patience wears thinner by the day. Exactly as I planned.
Still, it’s not enough. Not yet. Each night, as the city goes quiet and the lights across the river flicker out, my thoughts drift back to her: the way her eyes widened on the terrace, the tremor in her voice, the way she couldn’t decide if she wanted to run from me or toward me. I crave that look again—the wild mixture of defiance and want, fear and longing.
This is no longer about retribution. It’s about breaking down every wall she’s built and watching her choose me, even knowing I’m the worst thing that could ever happen to her.
The moment she finally gives in, the game will be over.
Chapter Fifteen - Isabella
The car is silent, the kind of silence that fills your lungs and sits heavy on your tongue. I sit next to my uncle, hands folded neatly in my lap, staring at the city lights passing by.
Vittorio looks older tonight, lines carved deep around his mouth, eyes fixed on the window as if he could glare the world into submission.
A nervous energy thrums in the car, sharp enough that I finally break the quiet. “You seem tense. Is everything all right?”
He glances at me, his gaze sharp and searching. I have the sudden sense he’s looking for a crack—some clue I’ve done something wrong. The moment stretches. Then he shakes his head, smoothing his features into something more fatherly, but the tension doesn’t leave his jaw.
“Nothing, Isabella. There are… rumors. Baseless, of course. About our family. About you.” His tone is dismissive, but the way he grips his cane tells me it’s not so simple.
I nod, staring out the window. The knowledge sits like a stone in my gut. There’s no need to ask what kind of rumors.
Emil Sharov’s name might as well be written on the fogged glass. The thought makes my chest ache and my fists clench. If he is truly behind Enzo’s death, then I want blood. The thought surprises me with its clarity and how easily it comes. If I see him again, I might not be able to stop myself.
We arrive at the Pedro house, a sprawling mansion dripping with the kind of wealth meant to impress old money.
The evening begins in a blur of handshakes and rehearsed greetings. I’m passed from cousin to aunt to well-heeled family friend, each one offering a compliment on my dress or my hair.My lips move automatically, smiling, nodding, agreeing, never really present. My mind drifts, looping back to the last time I saw Emil, to the chill of his warning, to the bruising certainty in his grip.
Vittorio’s voice pulls me back to the room. “Isabella, you remember Shawn Pedro’s son, Carlos?” He gestures to a young man standing by the fireplace. He’s tall, polite, handsome in the bland way rich boys often are. His suit is immaculate, his smile practiced.
