The Rossi villa glittered with chandeliers, laughter, and false warmth, but Isabella Rossi glided through it all like a shadow, untouched by the golden glow. Her smile was soft, her gown a silk of midnight blue, her every movement the picture of grace. Yet behind her eyes, venom brewed.
She had mastered the art of poison long ago. Not the kind slipped into goblets or meals—but the kind whispered into ears, dripped into hearts, and left to fester.
Tonight, her venom had a target.
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In a quiet salon lined with velvet drapes, Adriana sat alone, her wrists still bandaged from the chase. The faint glow of the firelight painted her pale skin in shades of gold and sorrow. She had not slept since the ambush. She could still hear the assassin’s mocking voice, could still feel the air part whe
