Chapter 5 5

Isabella POV

I stared up at the man pinning me against the freezing granite, my breath catching painfully in my throat. The amber light from the burning guest wing flickered across his chiseled jaw, casting half his face in demonic shadow.

He didn't look like a man who had just executed two people. He looked like a god of death who had merely swatted away a pair of annoying flies.

My eyes darted again to the two Marshall *Soldiers* bleeding out into the pristine snow at his feet. The precision of the kills-single shots, dead center between the eyes-screamed of a professional. Then, the flashing firelight caught a glint of metal at his waist. Pinned to his leather belt was a solid gold St. Christopher medal.

The ultimate symbol of *The Commission*.

Pure, unadulterated terror spiked through my veins. I hadn't just bumped into a rival thug; I had interrupted the boogeyman of the Chicago underworld during a sanctioned execution. Damien 'The Ghost' Guerrero was the blade *The Commission* used to sever rotting limbs from their empire. And I was a witness.

"You've had a busy night, Mrs. Marshall," Damien murmured. His voice was a low, smooth baritone that barely carried over the howling wind and the distant wail of sirens, yet it commanded the space with absolute authority.

He knew exactly who I was. He knew I was the one who had just turned the east wing into a blazing inferno.

My mind raced, calculating my odds of survival in fractions of a second. Running was suicide. Screaming for help would only bring Alistair's men, who would kill me just as quickly once they realized what I had done. I was trapped between the fire I had started and the ice of the man standing before me.

I had to give him a reason not to snap my neck. I needed a lever, something *The Commission* wanted more than my silence.

I forced my chin up, refusing to let my trembling show. I met his dead, obsidian eyes. "Killing me is the easy choice, but it's not the profitable one."

A dark, mocking amusement flickered in his gaze. He didn't reach for the gun holstered under his immaculate burgundy suit jacket, but his posture shifted, becoming infinitely more dangerous. He was waiting for the punchline before he pulled the trigger.

"The ledger," I said, forcing the words past the tight knot in my throat. "I know where Alistair keeps his secret ledger. It details every Thompson that found its way to Chicago, bypassing *The Commission*."

The amusement vanished from his eyes, replaced by a sudden, terrifying intensity. The air between us seemed to drop ten degrees. I had hit the exact nerve I was aiming for. He was here investigating Alistair's illegal arms hoarding.

Before I could even blink, Damien moved.

His large, leather-clad hand shot out, wrapping around my throat. He slammed me hard against the rockery, knocking the wind out of my lungs. The rough stone bit into my shoulder blades, but it was nothing compared to the crushing grip on my windpipe.

"You think you can bargain with me, little bird?" he whispered, leaning in so close I could feel the heat of his breath against my cheek. The scent of winter mint and fresh blood was intoxicatingly overwhelming. "I could snap your neck and tear this estate apart brick by brick to find what I need."

Black spots danced at the edges of my vision. My hands instinctively flew up, gripping his thick wrist, but it was like trying to move a steel beam. He was testing me, searching my eyes for a bluff, for weakness.

I dug my nails into his leather glove and fought for a single gasp of air.

"That ledger..." I choked out, my voice a desperate, raspy whisper. "It doesn't just lead to Alistair. It leads to the Romanos."

The name hung in the freezing air between us like a live grenade. The Romanos were the Sicilian suppliers, the missing link *The Commission* had been hunting for months.

For a long, agonizing second, Damien didn't move. His thumb rested heavily against my frantically beating pulse, feeling the sheer terror and absolute certainty coursing through my veins. Slowly, the crushing pressure around my windpipe eased, though his hand remained firmly wrapped around my neck, keeping me pinned to the stone.

His dark eyes narrowed, studying my face with a new, calculating coldness. The immediate threat of death receded, replaced by the heavy, suffocating weight of his scrutiny.