**Chapter 6: Marked**
979 Words
The Polaroid landed on Dominic’s desk with a soft *slap*.
Arianna stood rigid across from him, arms crossed, jaw tight. She had never been one for dramatics — but her silence now spoke louder than any threat.
Dominic stared at the photo for a long time.
Isabelle, caught in the moonlight in the chapel. Peaceful. Unaware. A red X slashed across her face like a signature written in blood.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe.
Arianna finally broke the silence. “The footage is clean. No fingerprints. No facial match. They breached the outer perimeter and disappeared without tripping a single alarm.”
Dominic set the photo down slowly. “He’s inside the city.”
“Worse,” Arianna said. “He’s watching us from inside the walls.”
Isabelle stood near the edge of the balcony, gazing out at the gardens below.
She hadn’t been told yet. Arianna insisted on tightening security first, sweeping the estate, running double-checks on every staff member and guard.
But Dominic didn’t wait long.
He approached quietly, and when she turned to him, she could tell something was different.
More tension in his jaw. More ice in his tone.
“What happened?” she asked immediately.
He handed her the photo.
The color drained from her face.
She stared at her own image — so vulnerable, unaware — defaced by someone who was *close enough to kill her.*
Her fingers curled around the photo until the edges crumpled.
“He was on the grounds?” she asked, her voice razor-thin.
Dominic nodded once.
“And this is a message?”
He stepped closer. “It’s not a warning.”
She met his eyes. “It’s a promise.”
Within the hour, the estate transformed.
Security tripled. Motion sensors installed at every entrance. Sharpshooters posted in hidden towers. Staff were questioned, backgrounds rechecked, passwords rotated. The Moretti estate — already a fortress — became a war zone on lockdown.
Dominic gave the order personally.
“No one leaves. No one enters. Not without my say.”
Arianna nodded. “And Isabelle?”
“She doesn’t go anywhere alone.”
Isabelle protested, of course.
“I’m not going to live like a hostage in my own house,” she snapped as Dominic followed her into the study.
“You’re not a hostage,” he said.
“You put snipers on the roof.”
He crossed his arms. “And now you’re alive. You’re welcome.”
Her frustration boiled over. “Is this what marriage means to you? Surveillance? Lockdown? Ownership?”
“It means *protection*,” he growled. “Because someone out there wants you dead, and I’m not going to let that happen.”
She stepped closer, defiant. “What if it’s your enemies trying to hurt *you* by going after me?”
His expression didn’t waver. “That’s possible.”
She blinked. “And you still want me here?”
He stared at her for a long moment. Then, quietly:
“I’m not letting you go, Isabelle. Not because of them.”
That night, she couldn’t sleep again.
But this time, it wasn’t anger.
It was fear.
Not the kind she’d grown up with — fear of guns, of deals gone wrong, of sudden disappearances.
This fear was more intimate.
*Targeted.*
She stood by the window, watching the guards patrol the grounds, every shadow twitching like it was ready to strike. The Polaroid burned in her mind.
A mark.
A declaration.
And she couldn’t shake the feeling that whoever left it had done so with a smile.
Downstairs, in the secured archive room, Arianna was combing through old intel — surveillance photos, intercepted messages, black market chatter.
Luca joined her, holding a glass of bourbon, his expression unusually somber.
“You think this is personal?” he asked.
“It always is,” she said.
“She’s only been here for a week.”
“And she already has a price on her head,” Arianna muttered. “That’s not random. That’s obsession.”
She flipped a folder open, revealing a classified image from three years ago: a grainy photo of **Giovanni Valente**, standing near a private airstrip in Morocco. He was looking at someone just off-frame.
The caption read:
> **Target acquired. Rejected contact with Romano envoy. No deal confirmed.**
Arianna’s brows furrowed.
She flipped to the next page.
Another image. Another red X.
But this one was over someone else’s face.
**Isabelle’s brother.**
The next morning, Isabelle found herself drawn back to the chapel ruins.
Two guards trailed her at a distance, trying not to intrude, but their presence was obvious. She didn’t care anymore.
She needed space to think.
She traced her fingers along the stone walls, the vines curling like veins, the broken stained glass reflecting the pale dawn light.
That’s when she saw it.
On the altar, tucked beneath a cracked candleholder.
A flower.
Black.
**A rose.**
Her heart skipped.
She didn’t touch it.
Didn’t have to.
She knew what it meant.
A black rose — *Valente’s signature.*
He’d been here.
Not just on the property.
**Inside the chapel.**
Inside the one place she thought was hers.
She didn’t tell Dominic right away.
Instead, she took the flower, wrapped it in a cloth napkin, and hid it in her coat.
But when she entered the main hall, Luca was waiting.
He looked at her, his expression unreadable.
And then he said something that made her blood freeze.
“He was watching you long before the wedding, Isabelle.”
She stared at him. “What do you mean?”
“Valente. You weren’t just collateral. You were *chosen.*”
Her throat tightened. “Why?”
Luca hesitated, then looked over his shoulder, making sure they were alone.
“Because he blames Dominic.”
“For what?”
Luca’s jaw clenched.
“For what happened to your brother.”
- Writer
