Chapter 4 No.4

Isabella POV

The freezing Chicago wind whipped my face, biting through my thin coat, but I barely felt the cold. I crouched behind the snow-draped stone rockery in the estate garden, the rough granite pressing into my spine. My thumb traced the cold, metallic button of the detonator in my pocket.

Footsteps crunched heavily against the fresh snow.

I held my breath, peering through the frosted branches of a dead rosebush. Adrienne was walking down the illuminated pathway toward the east wing. Beside her was Hoy Casey. The Irish boss was a hulking mass of a man, his face flushed with cheap whiskey and unadulterated lust. He was rubbing his thick hands together, a predatory, sickening grin plastered across his face. He truly believed he was walking into a secret rendezvous to conquer the lady of the Marshall estate. His arrogance blinded him to the slight tremble in Adrienne's shoulders.

They stopped in front of Room four. Adrienne kept her head bowed, playing the part of the submissive servant perfectly. She gestured to the door, whispering something I couldn't hear.

Casey didn't even look at her. He eagerly turned the brass knob and stepped into the dark room where Adina lay unconscious on the bed. The heavy oak door clicked shut behind him.

The trap was sprung.

Adrienne didn't hesitate. She gave a single, barely perceptible nod toward the dark garden and vanished into the shadows, heading back to the main hall just as I had instructed.

I pulled the detonator from my pocket. The heavy metal felt like the weight of my Vendetta. This was never just about punishing Adina or ruining Carmella's birthday. This was about Alistair. By detonating a stash of military-grade dynamite beneath the guest wing and burying a rival boss in the rubble, I was framing the Marshalls for the ultimate sin. Hoarding illegal weapons and assassinating a boss on their own territory would bring the absolute wrath of The Commission down upon Alistair's head. And Catarina Casey, Hoy's ruthless wife, would unleash the full force of the Zetta family upon them.

I pressed the button.

For a split second, there was only the howling wind. Then, the night tore open.

A deafening roar shattered the winter silence. The ground violently heaved beneath my boots. The entire east wing erupted in a blinding, apocalyptic pillar of orange and red fire. The shockwave hit me like a physical blow, sending a spray of snow and dirt over the rockery. Wood splintered, glass shattered, and the roof of the guest wing caved in on itself in a fiery collapse.

Through the smoke, I saw a Marshall Soldier who had been patrolling the perimeter get lifted entirely off his feet. He was thrown through the air like a discarded ragdoll, crashing into the frozen hedges, unmoving.

Over the ringing in my ears, the muffled, frantic screams from the main hall began. I could perfectly picture the chaos inside-Adrienne bursting into the ballroom, her face pale with feigned terror, shrieking to Carmella and Catarina Casey that Hoy was caught in the blast.

The Marshall family was officially bleeding.

It was time to move. I turned, keeping my back to the inferno, and hurried along my predetermined escape route through the deepest shadows of the garden. The snow was slippery, and the flashing amber light from the flames cast long, distorted shadows across the statues.

I rounded the sharp edge of the rockery, my eyes fixed on the servant's gate in the distance.

Suddenly, I slammed into a solid wall of muscle.

Before I could even gasp, a large, gloved hand clamped over my mouth, violently jerking me backward into the pitch-black alcove of the stones. My back hit a broad, hard chest.

Panic spiked through my veins. I thrashed, my hands clawing at the leather glove, but the grip was like iron.

Then, the smell hit me. It wasn't the acrid smoke of the explosion. It was the overwhelming, metallic stench of fresh, hot blood, mixed with the sharp scent of winter mint and expensive cologne.

"Quiet," a voice murmured against my ear. It was a low, smooth baritone that sent a shiver of pure terror down my spine.

The man turned me around, pinning me against the freezing stone. My wide eyes adjusted to the shadows, taking in the immaculate burgundy suit that seemed to absorb the fiery glow of the burning estate. His face was devastatingly handsome, carved from marble, but his dark eyes were dead, cold, and terrifyingly calm.

My gaze darted downward for a fraction of a second. Half-buried in the snow at his expensive leather shoes lay the bodies of two Marshall Soldiers, neat bullet holes drilled perfectly between their eyes.

I looked back up into the face of Damien 'The Ghost' Guerrero, the chief Enforcer of The Commission.