Chapter 2

Isabella POV

Damien spoke rapid, hushed Italian into the receiver, his voice devoid of the raw, possessive heat that had just scorched my skin. He hung up and turned his back to me, adjusting his cuffs with the lethal precision of a Don preparing for war.

A sharp knock echoed through the penthouse. Damien didn't flinch. He strode to the door, opening it just enough to allow a man in a tailored suit to step inside. The man-a family doctor, judging by the discreet black bag-kept his eyes strictly on the floor. He handed Damien a small paper cup and a glass of water, then vanished as quickly as he had appeared.

Damien walked back to the bed. His obsidian eyes were unreadable, stripped of any lingering desire. He held out the cup. Inside rested a single, stark white pill.

Plan B.

The message was deafeningly clear. Whether he remembered our past life or simply saw me as a nameless Falcone threat who had stumbled into his bed, he was severing any possibility of a future. He was denying me the chance to ever carry a Moretti heir, erasing the ghost of the son we once had before he even existed.

"Swallow it," Damien commanded, his voice a sheet of ice.

My throat tightened, but I didn't cry. The Isabella who would have wept for his affection had died in a freezing lake. I took the pill, placed it on my tongue, and drank the water, maintaining unbroken eye contact with the Dark Don.

Satisfied, Damien turned on his heel. He walked out of the suite without a backward glance. I scrambled to the door, clutching the ruined silk sheet to my chest, only to watch the private elevator doors slide shut, sealing him away.

The silence of the room crashed down on me. The sweat on my skin turned frigid, and suddenly, the chill wasn't just from the air conditioning.

It was the water.

My knees buckled as the phantom sensation of Lake Michigan swallowed me whole. I could feel the pitch-black, freezing current dragging me down. I could hear Rosalie's sweet, venomous voice whispering my failures on the pier, her manicured hands shoving me into the abyss while Julian Bellini watched with dead, indifferent eyes.

I gasped for air, my nails digging into the plush carpet. The memory shifted, violently tearing me from the lake and throwing me onto the damp grass of Calvary Cemetery.

*The screech of van tires. The brutal hands of Julian's associates grabbing my hair. And then, Bianca-my sweet, timid maid-slamming her body into my attackers.*

*"Run, Isa! Run!"*

Her agonizing screams echoed in my skull as they dragged her into the van instead of me. She had died so I could live a few more miserable days.

I slowly pushed myself off the floor, my reflection in the hallway mirror catching my eye. Pale. Bruised. But alive. Damien Moretti was an enemy, Julian was a monster, and Rosalie was a parasite. I was entirely alone, but this time, I knew the rules of the game.

By the time I was transported back to St. Jude's Sanctuary-the remote gothic retreat my family used as a cover for my temporary "disappearance"-the storm inside me had settled into a cold, calculated fury.

I stood in the shadowy loggia of the sanctuary, watching the midnight rain lash against the stone arches. Footsteps echoed behind me.

"Isa!"

I turned to see Bianca rushing down the corridor, her face pale with worry. She was alive. Whole. The sight of her made my chest ache, but I forced my expression to remain blank.

"Francesca just arrived with the car," Bianca said breathlessly, wringing her hands. "She brought a message from Lady Rosalie. There are rumors of gang violence erupting on the main highway tonight. Rosalie insists we leave immediately and take the old canyon road back to the estate. She says it's a much safer route."

The canyon road.

A bitter, knowing smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. It was the exact same script. The "safe route" was a dead zone, the perfect stage for Rosalie's hired thugs to ambush my car so Julian could swoop in, take a staged bullet for me, and bind my naive heart to his forever.

"Is something wrong, Isa?" Bianca asked, stepping closer.

"No, Bianca," I said softly, my eyes drifting toward the gravel driveway where Francesca and the black Lincoln Town Car waited in the dark. "Tell Francesca we will take the canyon road. I wouldn't want to disappoint my sister."