ISABELLA

Chapter 4

Leo’s POV

The office smelled of smoke and rage. My rage.

I slammed my fist on the mahogany desk, making the whiskey glass tremble.

“Tell me again,” I growled, my voice cutting through the room like a blade. “How the f**k do you lose my goods?”

My right-hand man, Matteo, stood stiff, his jaw clenched. He had been with me for years “The truck was ambushed, Leo. We took fire. One of them—he escaped with the shipment before we could—”

“Before you could what?” I snapped, standing. My chair scraped against the marble floor, sharp as the crack of a gun. “You let one man walk away with millions of euros worth of merchandise? And you expect me to swallow that like a fool?”

Silence. The kind that makes men sweat bullets.

I walked around the desk, slow, deliberate. My footsteps echoed in the room. This was the rhythm of power. The rhythm my father drilled into me since I was old enough to hold a gun.

Don’t rush to kill. Make them feel it first.

I stopped inches from Matteo and leaned in, my breath grazing his ear.

“You work for me, not for your excuses. And in my world,” I whispered, “failure has a price.”

My hand went to the gun tucked in my waistband. Not because I was going to shoot him—not yet—but because I wanted him to feel the weight of death pressing on his skin.

He swallowed hard. “It won’t happen again.”

“It better not,” I said, shoving him back. My voice dropped to a cold finality. “Find the bastard who took my shipment. Alive. Or don’t bother showing your face to me again.”

I turned away, lighting a cigarette, exhaling smoke into the dim light. My world was built on shadows, blood, and loyalty bought with fear. And at the top of it all—me. Leonardo DeLuca. The heir.

People called me ruthless. Maybe I was. But in this family, weakness was a disease. And I was never going to be weak. Not like my father thought I could be. Not like Riccardo hoped I would be.

Riccardo. My cousin. Every smile he wore was a dagger aimed at my back. He wanted the throne just as much as I did, and he’d slit my throat in the dark if it gave him a chance.

But he didn’t understand one thing.

This empire wasn’t just my father’s legacy—it was mine. The streets whispered my name, and when I walked into a room, men looked down because they knew better than to challenge me.

I was the Deluca heir. And heirs don’t beg. We take.

I crushed the cigarette against the ashtray, the smoke curling like ghosts around me. The night was still young, and I had work to do.

THE CLUB

I had been waiting for this moment all week, waiting for the rat stupid enough to steal from me to crawl back into my territory.

And here he was.

Two of my men had him by the arms, dragging him through the crowd. His face was pale, smeared with sweat and fear. The dancers barely noticed, too drunk on music and smoke to see death walk past them.

We pushed out through the back doors into the alley behind the club. The night was cooler here, — the kind of quiet that only meant one thing: blood would spill.

“Put him down,” I ordered.

They shoved him onto his knees, gravel biting into his skin. He winced, eyes darting everywhere except at me. I hated cowards.

I stepped closer, slow, deliberate. My shoes crunched against the pavement, and he flinched at every sound.

“You’ve got guts,” I said, voice low. “Stealing from me. Running with what’s mine.”

He shook his head violently. “Please, Leo, I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know—”

I crouched in front of him, gripping his jaw tight, forcing him to look at me. His pulse hammered under my fingers. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

I let go, shoving his head back, disgust curling my lip. “Tell me—who do you work for? Riccardo? Hm?”

At the mention of my cousin, his eyes widened, and that hesitation was all I needed. Fury coiled hot in my veins.

“Pathetic.”

I straightened, pulling the silenced gun from my holster. The metallic click of me c*****g it echoed loud in the alley, louder than the club’s muffled bass. His breathing quickened, ragged, begging spilling from his mouth.

“Please, Leo. Please, I swear—”

I pressed the barrel against his forehead, tilting my head like I was studying a piece of art.

“You stole from me. That means you don’t get to breathe unless I say so.”

His eyes brimmed with tears, his body trembling, but I didn’t hesitate. I never did.

I pulled the trigger.

The sound was muted, just a soft thup, but the life drained from his eyes instantly. His body collapsed to the pavement, limp and useless. My men stepped back, waiting for my word on what to do with the corpse.

I lowered the gun, exhaling slowly. “Clean it up. Burn everything.”

A sound — sharp, small, but enough.

A gasp.

My head snapped toward it instantly.

There, in the shadows near the side wall, stood a girl. Not some passerby, not a drunk stumbling out of the club. She had been there long enough to see it all. Wide eyes locked on me, hands trembling at her sides, her chest rising and falling too fast.

Her fear smelled like blood in the air.

I felt the world narrow down to just her and me. My pulse didn’t race — it slowed, calm and cold, like a predator recognizing prey.

I raised the gun again, pointing it at her, my steps measured as I closed the distance.

She tried to back away, but there was nowhere for her to go.

When I was close enough, I grabbed her by the arm, yanking her against me, the muzzle of the gun brushing her side. Her skin was soft under my grip, her pulse frantic.

“If you say one word about what you just saw…” I leaned down, my voice a lethal whisper against her ear. “…I’ll put a bullet in your head myself.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came out. She was frozen.

I tilted her chin up with the barrel of the gun, forcing her to look me in the eyes. Those eyes… wide, terrified, but burning with something I couldn’t name.

Dangerous.