ISABELLA
The warehouse smelled like rust, oil, and treachery. Renzo’s trembling voice echoed inside, bouncing off the concrete walls.
I’d heard that voice hours ago. In the council chamber. Saying, “Let the Dona speak.” I stepped forward, peering through the c***k in the warehouse door. And Don Vittore Lamberti stepped into the light. Silver hair. Impeccable suit. A face carved from marble and arrogance.
I simply went cold.
“Luca,” I murmured. “On my signal.”
He nodded, jaw clenched so tight it could c***k.
Inside, Lamberti paced slowly, hands clasped behind his back.
“Renzo,” he said, voice smooth as poison, “you did well. The Dona is naïve. Predictable. Emotional. She won’t last the two weeks.”
Renzo swallowed. “S‑sir… what happens now?”
Lamberti smiled.
“We finish what we sta
