Chapter 5

Isabella POV

Once Bianca's trembling silhouette disappeared into the suffocating darkness, I was left entirely alone with the dead. The deafening, relentless roar of the rushing river below the embankment swallowed the silence, providing the perfect cover for what needed to be done.

I pulled open the driver's side door. The metallic stench of fresh blood was already thick in the cramped cabin. Francesca was dead weight, her body slipping awkwardly against the pristine leather. Gritting my teeth, I grabbed her under the arms and hauled her forward.

It was messy, exhausting work. As I dragged her toward the front seat, my heel caught on the slick, wet gravel of the shoulder. I went down hard. A sharp, blinding pain shot up my left ankle, stealing the breath from my lungs. I bit down on my lip so hard I tasted copper, refusing to let out a sound. *Vendetta.* The word pulsed in my veins, a dark mantra that fueled my adrenaline.

Ignoring the throbbing agony in my leg, I forced myself back up. I hauled Francesca the rest of the way, slumping her heavily over the steering wheel. I adjusted my heavy wool coat over her shoulders, ensuring it draped naturally, and made sure my signature ruby hairpin caught the faint moonlight in her messy bun. From a distance, the illusion was flawless. She was me.

Limping heavily, I scrambled up the steep, muddy embankment and melted into the freezing shadows of the dense woods. I crouched behind a thick oak tree, my injured ankle burning, and waited.

I didn't have to wait long.

About fifteen minutes later, the screech of tires violently pierced the night. Headlights slashed through the darkness as a black Cadillac swerved to a halt near the abandoned Lincoln. The theater had officially begun.

Men piled out of the vehicle, shouting crude, rehearsed curses into the cold air. A few exaggerated gunshots rang out, echoing off the canyon walls. Then, stepping into the fray like a savior descending from the heavens, was Julian Bellini.

Even in the dim light, his bespoke royal blue suit stood out. He moved with the arrogant swagger of a man who believed he was the undisputed hero of this narrative. He engaged in a brief, highly theatrical scuffle with his own hired *associates*. From my vantage point in the shadows, I watched with cold detachment as Julian deliberately turned his body, allowing one of the men to drag a blade across his arm.

Blood instantly stained the expensive blue fabric. A calculated sacrifice for his "beloved."

Having played their part, the hired men scattered into the night. Julian clutched his bleeding arm, his face twisting into a mask of manufactured agony and desperate devotion. He sprinted toward the Lincoln, his breath visible in the frigid air.

He wrenched the driver's side door open.

"Isa!" Julian's voice cracked perfectly, a masterclass in fake heartbreak. "Don't be afraid, I'm here! I'll protect you!"

Without a second of hesitation, he lunged forward. He wrapped his arms tightly around the stiffening, blood-soaked corpse of my traitorous maid, burying his face in her hair, completely blind to the cold reality of the dead flesh in his embrace.

I stood perfectly still in the shadows, the icy wind biting at my cheeks, watching the Underboss of the New York outfit cradle a dead rat.