(Isabella’s POV)
New York. The city was a glittering, beautiful beast, its canyons of glass and steel breathing a cold, impersonal energy that was a world away from the gritty, intimate familiarity of Chicago. I had once loved this city, had spent a blissful year here studying, but now it felt like enemy territory, every shadow a potential threat, every gleaming skyscraper a watchtower in Vittorio Bianchi’s kingdom.
Our suite at The Pierre was an opulent fortress of silk and marble, overlooking Central Park. It was a perfectly crafted stage for our roles as Count Lorenzo and Countess Alessa Petrova. A team of stylists, all part of Anya’s network, had descended upon me the moment we arrived, their ministrations a quiet, focused ritual of transformation. But it was the final moments, after
