The Rossi heir was unraveling, and Isabella savored every thread.
From her vantage point on the balcony overlooking the courtyard, she watched the Moretti guards shift their posts at dawn. Efficient, disciplined, predictable—Damian’s men were well-trained, but they weren’t immune to distraction. Nor were they immune to subtlety, which had always been her weapon of choice.
Power wasn’t only seized with guns and bloodshed. Power was stolen in whispers, planted in the right ears at the right moment, in the careful tilt of a smile that made lies taste like truth.
And Adriana Rossi? She had proven far more susceptible than Isabella had even dared to hope.
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The note had been simple enough—carefully forged in an anonymous hand, laced with just the right amount of cruelty. A cufflink, lift
