"Boss," he said in a low voice. "This just arrived."
I frowned. "From who?"
"No return address."
I stood, took it from him, and tore it open. A single photograph slid out, and I picked it up. For a second, I couldn't breathe. It was Isabella. She was stepping out of her father's villa, wearing that same calm mask she always wore in public. But that wasn't what made my stomach twist.
There was a small red circle drawn around her head. It was a crosshair, a sniper's scope, and I stared at it, and the air around me turned to ice. For a moment, everything went quiet. My pulse, my thoughts, and the world. Then it hit all at once, the rage, the fear, and the fire that never stopped burning.
Yuri shifted nervously. "Boss."
I looked up slowly. "Where did this come from?"
"It was delivered to the lobby. No name, just that."
I clenched the photo until the edge cut my skin. "Get every man we have," I said, in a low, hard voice. "No one sleeps until we find who did this."
Yuri didn't argue; he just nodded once and rushed out. The door shut behind him, leaving me alone with the picture. I stared at it for a long time, her face, her eyes... the target over her head. They were coming for her, and now they knew exactly what she meant to me. I poured another drink, but my hand shook, and the whiskey splashed onto the desk. I didn't care. I couldn't stop thinking, when did she become this? The weakness they'd use against me, the one thing that could break me.
Was it love? Obsession? I didn't even know anymore. All I knew was that if anyone touched her, even breathed near her, they'd never see daylight again.
I looked down at the picture one last time, my voice barely a whisper now. "You're not dying, Isabella. Not while I'm still breathing."
I placed the photo on the desk, and the red circle stared back at me like a challenge. If they wanted war, they'd get one. And this time, I wasn't just defending the Bratva, I was defending her. Even if I had to burn the whole city to the ground to do it.
Chapter Seventeen
Isabella’s POV
The photograph lay between us like a curse.
Mikhail's jaw was tight, his eyes were dark enough to swallow the light in the room. His hand gripped the edge of the table until the veins in his arm stood out, trembling with barelycontrolled rage. He didn't look at me at first; he just stared at the photo like he could burn it to ash with his anger alone.
"This means they're watching you," he said finally, in a low, dangerous voice. "They're close. Too close, Isabella."
I leaned back against the sofa, crossing my legs slowly. "Then maybe they want to remind you what happens when you make too many enemies, Mr. Lobanov."
He lifted his gaze, and for a second, I saw fear, not for himself but for me. And that made something twist deep inside my chest.
"I'll find them," he said, every last one of them. They won't get near you again."
"You sound confident," I said, my tone cool and teasing. "But maybe this is exactly what you deserve."
His head snapped up. "What did you say?"
I smiled, small and sharp. "Maybe this is your punishment, Mikhail. To marry a woman who will bring your empire down. Maybe that's the price you pay for every man you've killed and every lie you've told."
His nostrils flared. "You think you finally met someone who plays it better."
The air between us was heavy. He took a slow step closer, like he wasn't sure if he wanted to strangle me or pull me against him. His eyes burned with that same fire that scared most people into silence. But I wasn't most people anymore.
Inside, my heart was pounding. The photo, the proof that someone wanted me dead, should've made me crumble. Butinstead, it woke something else, a strange calm that comes when you realize fear doesn't protect you but power does.
Mikhail slammed his hand on the table, making the frame rattle. "You think I'll let them touch you?"
"I think you'll try," I said. "And maybe that's enough for now."
He stared at me like I was a puzzle he couldn't solve. Like he wanted to read every thought behind my calm expression and couldn't. That bothered him. He was the man who controlled me, and I had just stolen that power from him without lifting a finger.
