Chapter 3 3

Isabella POV

Damien ripped the heavy mahogany door open. Leo Moretti stood in the hallway, a smug, entitled smirk plastered across his face, completely ignoring the tense Soldier beside him.

"Uncle," Leo drawled, stepping into the room uninvited. "We need to discuss the South Side docks. You bypassed my explicit orders regarding the new bootlegging route with the O'Malley family. I am the Don. I make the final call."

The temperature in the room plummeted. Damien didn't yell. He didn't even blink. His silence was a physical weight, the pure, unadulterated killing intent of the true Dark Don bleeding into the air. He took a slow, measured step toward his nephew. I knew that look. Leo was seconds away from a bullet to the head.

"The O'Malleys are rats, Leo."

My voice sliced through the suffocating tension, calm and crystal clear.

Both men snapped their attention to me. I stood by the bed, smoothing the silk stockings Damien had just put on me. "If you run that route with them, you'll be handing the shipment directly to the Chicago PD."

Leo's face flushed with indignant rage. "What the hell are you talking about, you crazy bi-"

Damien moved so fast it was a blur. His large hand clamped around Leo's throat, violently cutting off his words and slamming him against the doorframe. "Speak to her like that again, and I will rip your tongue out," Damien whispered, his voice a demonic rasp.

"Detective Miller," I continued, stepping closer, completely unfazed by the violence. "He's their handler. The drop scheduled for midnight on Thursday is a sting operation. Let them have the route, Damien. Send a decoy truck. Give the police the O'Malleys and their corrupt cops wrapped in a neat little bow."

Damien slowly released Leo, letting the younger man gasp for air. But Damien's eyes were fixed entirely on me. The murderous rage in his gaze had morphed into a dark, consuming fascination. Leo, pale and humiliated by a woman he deemed a mere hostage, scrambled out of the room without another word.

Damien stepped into my space, his thumb gently tracing my jawline. I was no longer just a captive in his gilded cage; I had just proven myself as a lethal co-conspirator.

*

The next afternoon, the oppressive atmosphere of the bedroom was replaced by the cloying, sweet scent of Black Baccara roses. I stood in the estate's immaculate gardens, a pair of silver shears in my hand, methodically snipping the thorns off a blood-red stem.

The crunch of gravel announced her arrival.

"Izzy!" Mona rushed forward, her eyes brimming with perfectly manufactured tears. She reached for my hands, her face a mask of tragic devotion. "Oh, God. Look at you. That cold-blooded monster has ruined you."

I didn't flinch. I gently but firmly pulled my hands from her grasp. "Damien treats me well, Mona."

Mona recoiled, her features twisting in exaggerated horror. "Are you out of your mind? It's Stockholm syndrome, Izzy! Julian is heartbroken. He told me he's not ashamed of you, no matter what that beast has forced you to do. He swore he'd get you out of this cage."

I paused, letting the shears snap shut with a sharp *snick*. I turned to face her fully, tilting my head with an innocent, almost childlike curiosity.

"Oh? How sweet of him to confide in you."

Mona froze.

"I wonder," I murmured, my voice dropping to a soft, lethal whisper, "why my fiancé discusses his deepest feelings about me with my little sister, instead of with me?"

All the color drained from Mona's face. Her eyes darted frantically, the mask of the devoted sister shattering into a million jagged pieces on the white pebbles between us. She opened her mouth to speak, but her throat worked uselessly around the sudden panic choking her. I turned back to my roses, leaving her to drown in the suffocating silence of her own exposed treason.