Scarlet Promise

Chapter 3: Poking the Demon

Down in the damp basement, the air was thick with tension. The surviving attacker, battered and bloodied, was tied to a chair. His face was twisted in defiance, but the fear in his eyes betrayed him.

“Who sent you?” Isabella’s voice was cold and steady, each word cutting like a blade.

The man spat blood onto the floor, a weak attempt at rebellion. “You think you’re untouchable?” he sneered. “You’re not. None of you are.”

Her expression didn’t change, but a dangerous glint flickered in her eyes. Without a word, she stepped back and gestured to Gregor. The man’s screams began moments later, echoing through the concrete walls. Isabella waited, unflinching, her gaze locked on the door as though daring someone to interrupt.

When Gregor emerged, he wiped his bloodied hands on a cloth. “He talked. They were sent to make a statement. But there’s more—they’re connected to the DeLucas.”

Isabella’s jaw tightened further, though her expression remained calm. She dismissed Gregor with a curt nod and returned upstairs. If the DeLucas wanted war, they would get one.

Meanwhile in the dark eastern wing of the Deluca Estate.The whiskey in Enrico DeLuca’s hand gleamed amber in the dim light of his study. He leaned back in his leather chair, the faint hum of the gala miles away from his thoughts. Tonight was a step forward, a calculated move in a game that had been years in the making.

The Volkovs had grown complacent, confident in their power, but Enrico knew better. Every empire, no matter how grand, had its cracks. You just needed to know where to look and how to pry them open.

From his seat, he could almost picture the Volkov estate in chaos. He imagined Dante—once the prodigal son, now a shadow of his former self—bleeding out, his sister Isabella scrambling to protect him and hold the family together. The thought brought a smirk to Enrico’s lips. It wasn’t personal, not entirely. It was just good strategy. The Volkovs and DeLucas had been dancing around an unspoken rivalry for years. Tonight, he’d tipped the scales.

His phone buzzed on the desk, the screen lighting up with a text. “It’s done.”

Enrico exhaled slowly, the satisfaction blooming within him. The shot had been a warning, not a kill. A declaration of intent. He didn’t need Dante dead—yet. He needed chaos, suspicion, and mistrust. When the Volkovs turned inward to sniff out betrayal, when they questioned their allies and doubted their enemies, the pieces would fall into place.

He took another sip of whiskey, his mind already plotting the next move. Viktor was the only wildcard. His nephew was sharp, too sharp for Enrico’s liking. Viktor had always been loyal, but loyalty only went so far in their world. He’d keep an eye on the boy. After all, even chess pieces could turn on the player.

Back at the Volkov estate, the gala had descended into chaos.

Screams echoed through the once-grand ballroom, the clink of broken glass now mixing with hurried footsteps. Isabella Volkov stood amidst the turmoil, her emerald gown streaked with crimson as she watched her brother being carried upstairs.

Her voice was calm but sharp as steel. “Lock the gates. No one leaves until I say so.”

Gregor and the other guards moved swiftly, sealing off the estate and securing the perimeter. Guests were ushered out of sight, their once-polished appearances now disheveled with panic. Isabella didn’t care about their discomfort. Her focus was singular: finding the attacker and making them regret ever stepping foot on her family’s land.

Enrico’s smirk widened as he imagined the Volkovs scrambling for answers. His move had been subtle but effective—divide and conquer. The attack wasn’t meant to destroy them, not yet. It was a seed, planted to grow mistrust.He just needed to play his card right

But as he raised his glass in a silent toast to his own brilliance, his thoughts turned darker. Viktor would suspect him. That boy always saw too much, asked too many questions. Enrico wasn’t afraid, but he knew better than to underestimate him.

“Let the games begin,” he murmured to himself, finishing the last of his whiskey.

Isabella stood outside the basement door, her fists clenched as she steadied herself. The attacker had already been questioned, and Gregor had extracted enough information to point them toward the DeLucas. Her expression darkened.

Back upstairs, Dante groaned as he lay on the bed, pale but conscious. “I told you,” he muttered weakly. “It’s just a graze.”

Isabella’s gaze softened for just a moment. “You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.” But the fire in her eyes quickly returned.

Gregor stepped into the room, his face grim. “It’s confirmed. They were hired to cause chaos. There’s a connection to the DeLucas.”

Her jaw tightened. She didn’t respond immediately, her mind racing. A connection wasn’t proof, but it was enough to spark fury. And fury, she knew, was best channeled strategically.

Viktor would have to answer for this and she would make sure of it . Whether he was directly involved or not, the DeLuca name was now tainted by suspicion.

As the first rays of dawn began to break over the horizon, Isabella stood on the balcony, staring into the distance. Whoever had dared to attack her family would pay for it in blood. Of that, she was certain.