Chapter 5 A Storm Brewing

Lorenzo's POV

I caught Matteo Moretti just before he hit the floor.

Blood stained the side of his face, dripping from a gash above his temple. His shirt was torn, his breathing ragged.

I didn't waste time asking questions. I hauled Matteo inside and shut the door with one sharp motion.

"Marco!" His voice was a command.

Within seconds, Marco appeared, gun drawn, eyes scanning the entryway before settling on the injured man. He cursed under his breath before rushing forward to help.

Isabella stood frozen a few feet away, her wide eyes darting between the blood and Me.

I ignored the way her breath hitched when she saw the weapon tucked at my waist.

This was the moment, wasn't it? The moment she realized exactly who I was.

"Take him to the basement," I ordered Marco, his voice steady, controlled. "I need answers."

Marco nodded and slung Matteo's arm over his shoulder, half-carrying him toward the hidden staircase.

Isabella still hadn't moved.

Her gaze flickered to me, searching, questioning, fearing.

Good.

She should be afraid.

She should walk away right now, take the out while she still could.

But she didn't.

Instead, she squared her shoulders, swallowing whatever fear threatened to take hold. "Who was that?"

I studied her for a beat too long. "No one you need to worry about."

Her jaw tightened. "He's bleeding."

"And he'll live," I said coldly. "But you need to forget you saw anything."

Isabella's fingers curled into fists at her sides. "Matteo was upstairs when that happened. What if he-"

"He didn't," I cut her off. "And he won't."

She glared at me, but I didn't care. She didn't understand this world.

Didn't understand that Matteo was safer if he never asked questions. If he never saw the blood.

If I carried the weight of it so my son didn't have to.

I stepped closer, lowering my voice. "You have two choices, Isabella. You can pretend this never happened, go upstairs, and do your job. Or..." His gaze darkened. "You can leave. Right now."

She hesitated.

I watched her closely, waiting.

And then-she did the one thing I didn't expect.

She lifted her chin and met my gaze head-on. "Matteo needs me."

Something cold twisted in my chest.

Because the way she said it-the quiet determination in her voice-told me everything I needed to know.

She wasn't leaving.

No matter what.

A sharp knock at the front door shattered the silence.

My entire body tensed.

No one ever came to my house unannounced.

Slowly, I reached for the gun at my waist and turned toward the door.

Behind me, Isabella whispered the question that sent ice down my spine.

"Lorenzo... who else knows where you live?"

My grip tightened around the gun.

The knock came again. Sharp. Impatient.

Marco was still in the basement with Matteo Moretti, and the house was supposed to be locked down. No one got this close without my permission.

My mind ran through possibilities-an enemy, a message, a mistake.

But I didn't believe in mistakes.

I turned my head slightly, locking eyes with Isabella. "Go upstairs. Now."

She didn't move.

"Isabella," I said, my voice lowered this time. A warning.

She hesitated-just for a second-then, to my relief, turned and hurried toward the stairs.

The moment she was out of sight, I approached the door. Every muscle in my body was taut, ready.

Then, I opened it.

The sight on the other side sent a rush of adrenaline through my veins.

Two men stood on my doorstep. Suits crisp. Hands empty. But their presence alone was enough to set my teeth on edge.

Romero and D'Angelo.

Men from my world.

Men who wouldn't show up at my house unless something was very, very wrong.

I didn't let them see my surprise. I leaned casually against the doorframe, gun still in hand, though I didn't raise it. Not yet.

"This better be good," I said flatly.

Romero, the taller of the two, smirked. "You're not going to invite us in?"

I didn't move. "I don't recall sending you an invitation."

D'Angelo, the quieter one, cut straight to the point. "We need to talk. Inside."

My jaw clenched. I didn't like people in my home-especially not men who worked for people I didn't trust.

But I also knew this wasn't a conversation that could happen in the open.

With a slow exhale, I stepped aside.

The moment they crossed the threshold, I locked the door behind them.

"Make it quick," I said, leading them toward my office.

Romero took his time glancing around, like he was committing every detail to memory. "Nice place."

I ignored the bait. I leaned against my desk, arms crossed. "Talk."

D'Angelo got straight to it. "There's been movement."

My pulse spiked, but my face remained unreadable. "Where?"

Romero stepped closer. "Too close." His smirk faded. "Someone put a price on your head, Romano."

Silence.

The air in the room shifted, heavy with something dark and unspoken.

I had plenty of enemies. That was nothing new. But a bounty-that meant someone wanted me gone badly enough to make an open invitation.

Which meant I wasn't just being hunted.

I was being hunted by everyone.

D'Angelo watched him closely. "Whoever it is, they're not subtle. Word's already spreading."

My fingers twitched near the gun.

This wasn't just about me.

It was about Matteo.

And Isabella.

She was upstairs, completely unaware of the storm brewing around her.

My mind flashed to the knock at the door. They found us, Matteo Moretti had said.

My jaw tightened.

This wasn't a coincidence.

Someone had already made a move.

And I was out of time.