Chapter 5 Moonlight and Malice

Florence, Italy – Villa Bellavista – Two Days After the Wedding

The late summer moon draped silver light across the stone terrace, where vines hung lazily from carved archways. Beyond the balustrade, the vineyards stretched like emerald waves under a star-scattered sky.

Inside the villa, the air was perfumed with roses and warm skin.

Isla lay in the center of their canopied bed, satin sheets twisted beneath her. The candles cast dancing shadows along her bare curves. Her hair fanned out like ink spilled across the pillows. She reached a hand toward Damien, who stood at the foot of the bed watching her like a man starving.

He was shirtless, the muscles in his abdomen cut from marble, his black pants hanging low on his hips. In his eyes burned that same wild fire-the one that had never gone out.

"Still staring?" she whispered, teasing.

"I'll never stop."

He crawled over her slowly, kissing a line from her ankle to her thigh, then upward, claiming her mouth with a growl. She arched into him, every inch of her humming with need. They moved together as if their souls knew the choreography-urgent, slow, then fast again, lost in each other.

Afterward, Isla curled into Damien's chest, breath still ragged.

"I never knew it could feel like this," she murmured.

He brushed a kiss to her temple. "Neither did I. I spent years building empires and collecting enemies. But the only thing that's ever felt real is you."

She looked up at him. "Do you think it's really over?"

He hesitated.

"No," he said honestly. "Not with the circles I run in. Not with the name I carry. But for tonight-it is. For tonight, you're safe. We're together. And nothing else matters."

She closed her eyes and let his heartbeat lull her into sleep.

But outside, beyond the gates of the villa, a black car idled in the shadows.

Watching. Waiting.

Morning – 9:03 a.m.

The Tuscan sun poured through the tall glass windows of the villa's dining room, bathing the breakfast table in light. Fresh figs, espresso, and lemon ricotta pancakes were laid out with practiced elegance.

Isla hummed as she buttered a croissant. She wore Damien's shirt-again-and nothing else. He liked it that way.

"You know," she said, sipping her coffee, "we could live here."

Damien grinned. "Give up New York?"

She shrugged. "Temporarily. Until the baby comes. It's quiet. Beautiful. No Brandon. No paparazzi."

"No reinforcements if something goes wrong," Damien countered, though he didn't say it like a dismissal-just a truth.

She rolled her eyes. "Always the strategist."

"Always your protector," he said, setting down his coffee.

Before she could answer, the glass pane behind them cracked-a clean, unnatural sound.

Damien stood instantly, stepping in front of her.

Another crack.

A bullet hole appeared in the wine decanter across the room.

"Down!" Damien shouted, grabbing Isla and diving behind the granite island.

Gunfire raked across the villa's façade.

"Security's supposed to sweep the grounds," Isla gasped.

"They did. Which means someone paid them off or got around them."

Damien pulled out his phone and activated a hidden transmitter embedded in his wedding band.

"This is Blackwood One," he said. "Villa compromised. Engage lockdown protocol. Get the jet ready. ETA fifteen minutes."

Isla looked up at him. "Who the hell is doing this now?"

He clenched his jaw. "I have a guess."

Elsewhere – Private Jet Hangar, Florence

Lucien Varro watched the security footage on a sleek laptop. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Isla and Damien. So perfect. So fragile.

He tapped a cigarette into a crystal ashtray and exhaled.

"Tell Blackwood I said hello," he murmured. "And that his sins are coming home."

Thirty Minutes Later – In Transit

The jet sliced through the clouds, heading west toward Switzerland, where Damien's European headquarters were located. Isla sat wrapped in a cashmere blanket, her knees pulled to her chest.

Damien sat across from her, staring out the window.

"You know him?" she asked.

"Lucien Varro," Damien said quietly. "CEO of Varro Holdings. Old money. Roman roots. The kind of man who owns the shadows."

"And what does he want?"

Damien turned his gaze on her. "Revenge. My father ruined him. I finished the job. He went underground five years ago, after I dismantled his smuggling empire. But now? Now he's back-and he's using us to send a message."

Isla's voice was low. "Is he worse than Brandon?"

Damien didn't blink. "Brandon was a rabid dog. Lucien is a wolf who wears silk and waits for you to look away."

Isla's fingers gripped the edge of her seat. "Then what's the plan?"

Damien leaned forward. "We strike first."

Zurich – Damien's Private Compound – 6:45 p.m.

The estate sat high in the mountains, secured behind biometric gates and a private armed staff. Inside, the operations team-led by Mia-was already analyzing Varro's digital trail.

"Encrypted transactions began three weeks ago," Mia reported. "Shell companies traced back to Lucien's fake Swiss firms. He's rebuilding his network under different names. But this? The hit on the villa? That wasn't a warning. It was a declaration."

"Then let's answer it," Damien said. "I want eyes on Varro's movement. I want his suppliers, his allies, his hired guns. If he's stepped back into this world, he's made a mistake."

Isla stood behind Damien, arms crossed. "What about me?"

Damien turned. "You stay here. Safe."

She met his gaze, unwavering. "No. I'm not going to be the pregnant wife locked away while you fight monsters."

He opened his mouth.

"Don't," she said. "I know the risks. I'm not made of glass."

He stepped toward her, took her hand. "I know exactly what you're made of. Fire and steel. That's why I married you."

She smiled faintly. "Then let me help."

He kissed her hand. "Always."

Three Days Later – Monaco

Isla sat beside Damien at a masked charity gala hosted at a private mansion on the coast. They wore designer disguises-her in a crimson gown with a Venetian mask, him in classic black with a matte finish to hide the glint in his eyes.

Lucien was rumored to be here.

The room was a forest of power brokers and criminals, all sipping champagne and pretending they weren't dangerous.

Damien's comm crackled. "Target spotted. Balcony. North corridor."

He nodded, slipped Isla his cufflink. "Press this twice if you're in danger."

She squeezed his hand. "Be careful."

"You too, Mrs. Blackwood."

He vanished into the crowd.

Isla drifted to the edge of the ballroom, watching the doors, eyes scanning-

Then, a scent hit her.

Cigarettes and roses.

She turned-and found herself face to face with a man who looked like sin dipped in gold.

Lucien Varro.

Balcony – Moments Later

Damien stepped into the night air, pistol tucked into his jacket.

But there was no one there.

Only a single envelope, sealed with red wax, lying on the table.

Inside: a photograph of Isla.

And a note.

"Trade her, or bury her. You choose. – L"