The Rossi villa was never silent, but tonight it hummed with more than its usual tension. Guards moved in and out, Bianchi men argued in low, clipped voices, and Enzo Rossi barked orders from the study. The Moretti ambush had unsettled everyone.
Everyone but Isabella.
She sat in Adriana’s chamber like a queen upon her throne, brushing her dark hair slowly before the mirror. Her eyes, however, were fixed not on herself but on the reflection of Adriana pacing behind her.
“You’re restless,” Isabella said softly. Her voice carried the purr of silk over steel. “And when you are restless, my dear cousin, you are careless.”
Adriana stilled, heat rushing to her cheeks. “You imagine things.”
“Do I?” Isabella set the brush down, rising with feline grace. She drifted toward Adriana, circling her
