Isabella POV
The silver Phantom disappeared into the haze, leaving the acrid stench of burning rubber and radiator fluid in its wake. Victoria didn't even notice the ghost that had just passed us. Her trembling fingers were already dialing a number on her phone, her eyes darting around the desolate highway.
Ten minutes later, a black Mercedes pulled onto the shoulder. A Russo Associate stepped out, looking nervously at the crushed SUVs. Victoria and Mia scrambled into the backseat like frightened rats fleeing a sinking ship.
I stepped forward, but Victoria rolled down the window just enough to let her venom slip through. Her face was a mask of terror and malicious triumph. "Trouble like you belongs with the scrap metal," she spat.
The locks clicked. The Mercedes sped off, leaving me alone with the smoking wreckage and a bewildered tow-truck driver who had just arrived on the scene.
I didn't feel the sting of abandonment. The federal penitentiary had burned away my capacity for heartbreak years ago. Instead, a cold, absolute certainty settled in my chest. This wasn't an insult; it was a liberation. Their names were now carved in stone on my *Vendetta* list.
"Take me to Manhattan," I told the driver, climbing into the cab of the tow truck.
An hour later, I walked through the gilded doors of Bergdorf Goodman. The contrast between my scuffed combat boots and the pristine marble floors was jarring, but I didn't care. I needed armor.
"Well, if it isn't the family's dirty little secret."
I stopped. Gavin Conti stood by a display of silk ties, looking like the perfect, arrogant heir in his bespoke navy suit. The man who had driven the car, framed me, and sent me to hell.
He marched over, his face twisting with disgust. "I don't know how you crawled out of your cage, Isabella, but you don't belong here. Stay away from Mia." He made the fatal mistake of grabbing my arm, his fingers digging into my bicep to assert his pathetic dominance.
Prison had taught me that hesitation was death.
I didn't argue. I moved. I clamped my hand over his, twisting his wrist at a brutal, unnatural angle while sweeping my heavy boot behind his knee. Gavin hit the marble floor with a sickening thud, the breath exploding from his lungs. Before he could even process the shock, I dropped my weight, driving my knee directly into his throat.
I leaned in, applying just enough pressure to make his eyes bulge with genuine panic. With a sharp, calculated jerk of my hands, I snapped his wrist.
The crisp crack echoed over the soft ambient music. Gavin let out a muffled, agonizing wheeze, his face turning a mottled purple.
I lowered my face to his ear, my voice a dead, icy calm. *"Un debito di sangue deve essere pagato, Gavin. E io verrò a riscuoterlo."* (A *Vendetta* is owed, Gavin. I will collect.)
Suddenly, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. That same heavy, suffocating gaze from the highway washed over me. I glanced up.
On the second-floor mezzanine, half-hidden in the shadows of the menswear section, stood a man. Broad shoulders, charcoal suit. Even from this distance, the sheer authority radiating from him was absolute. Beside him stood another man, quiet and still as a shadow.
Two security guards rushed toward me, but the man on the mezzanine merely raised a single finger. The guards froze instantly. Their aggressive posture vanished. They hauled a sobbing, broken Gavin off the floor and practically dragged him toward the exit.
"We apologize for the disturbance, ma'am," the head of security said to me, not meeting my eyes. "The cameras clearly show he assaulted you first."
It was a lie, and we both knew it. It was a silent command from the man above.
I didn't look up again. I didn't owe him a thank you. I walked into the designer boutique and pointed to a razor-sharp, tailored white suit.
As I paid with the last of the cash in my pocket, I caught a final glimpse of the mezzanine in a mirrored pillar. The man was speaking to his shadow. I couldn't hear the words, but my eyes tracked the dangerous, deliberate curve of his lips.
*I changed my mind. I don't want her as a lead. I want her.*
I took my shopping bag and stepped out into the biting wind of Fifth Avenue. I needed to disappear, find a secure terminal, and figure out exactly what kind of devil had just intervened in my war.
