Isabella's perspective
The bulletproof SUV stopped in front of the skeleton of an abandoned brewery from the Prohibition era. Rusty copper stills stood in the shadows, like silent, decaying giants, defying the gray sky.
"Wait here," I ordered Maddox and Jax.
The two soldiers exchanged an uneasy glance, their hands instinctively hovering over their holsters, but they nodded nonetheless.
The gauze on my palm was clean-I had just changed it this morning, although a faint rusty color still seeped through. The flesh underneath was scabbing over, but every time I flexed my fingers, a dull pain shot through my elbow.
I slipped inside alone. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and the ghostly, suffocating aroma of aged whiskey. As I walked deeper into the decaying floorboards, the faint sound of running water behind me caught my attention.
Beside a broken water pipe leading to a rusty sink stood a shirtless man. He was scrubbing fresh bloodstains from his white shirt. My breath caught in my throat. His physique was like that of a cold, ruthless god in Roman sculpture, his back muscles flowing with the tension of a predator. Hearing my footsteps, he turned around. His deep, wild eyes, seemingly unconcerned about the blood on his hands, locked onto mine.
"Does this scenery suit your taste, little kitty?" he drawled, his tone carrying the arrogance of a street thug.
His demeanor carried the reckless arrogance of a low-ranking soldier, but the overwhelming sense of aggression emanating from him was something no ordinary thug could possess. My instincts screamed wildly: this was a predator toying with his prey.
I maintained a mask-like coldness. "To reveal your location in a graveyard like this is tantamount to suicide."
A sinister smirk spread across his lips. "I'm not that easy to kill. What's a woman dressed in haute couture silk doing here at Blackwater Creek?"
"Looking for a specific medicinal fungus." I blurted out, my eyes darting rapidly through the shadows behind him.
Just then, I saw it. Beneath a piece of decaying wood beside his heavy leather boots, half-hidden, lay a worn cigar box, bearing a faded yet exquisite emblem. It was the mark of Gary the Ghost. He was indeed here.
With this dangerous stranger present, I couldn't act rashly. "Looks like I've come to the wrong place," I muttered, deliberately taking a step back.
"Leaving so soon?" His gaze followed my every move, a sharp interest igniting in his eyes that sent shivers down my spine.
"I've got what I needed," I said, turning and leaving decisively. The instant I stepped back into the light, I seemed to hear him snap his fingers, followed by a low command directed at the air: "Find out who she is."
Back in the SUV, my heart was pounding. I didn't look at Jax or Maddox. I pulled a folded piece of paper from my coat-a blank sheet of paper on which I had written a line in cipher before leaving the estate: "Old ledger. I know your hiding place. See you tonight. Same place." I had intended to slip it under the floorboards where the cigar box was kept. But the stranger's appearance disrupted my plans.
I must find another way.
"Drive to the edge of town," I instructed, "and then come back. We're not leaving now."
Two hours later, as night deepened, I returned to the brewery alone-this time, I walked along the other side of the collapsed wall, where the floorboards didn't creak. The stranger was gone. I found the cigar box, pried it open with my bandaged fingers, and slipped the cipher note inside. Then I retreated into the shadows and waited quietly.
An hour past midnight, a staggering figure emerged from the darkness. It was Gary's Ghost-a emaciated old man with cloudy eyes, his voice hoarse like a rusty door hinge. He opened his cigar box, read my note, and froze.
"Who sent you?" he asked in a hoarse voice.
I stepped out of the shadows. "There's no one else here. I came alone. And I know that Senator Whitmore's 1987 campaign funds were sponsored by the Chinese Triads. There were ten pages of records in that ledger."
The ghost's face drained of color instantly. This information had never been written down-it existed only in his memory. I have just proven that I know more than any living person.
What followed was an hour of tense negotiations. He agreed to a preliminary alliance: he would never sell the ledger to Damian Valenti. In exchange, once I extracted the pages I needed, I would provide him with a new identity and ensure his safe departure. We shook hands-his bony hand surprisingly strong-and the deal was struck.
By the afternoon of the following day, the stench of decay in Blackwater Creek had been replaced by the luxurious aromas of Chicago's Gold Coast. Three days had passed since Angelo's thoracentesis. His condition was now stable-the fluid hadn't returned-but his lungs remained fragile. Dr. Rossi had warned me against strenuous exercise, prolonged exposure to cold drafts, and a persistent cough for weeks to come. But he was alive. That was enough.
Although I had reached a preliminary agreement with the ghost, looking at Angelo before me, this victory still felt incredibly heavy. My son's face was pale, and the dark circles under his eyes constantly reminded me how close we had come to the edge of the cliff. A dry cough rumbled in his little chest, and he put his tiny fist to his mouth.
My heart ached when his eyes caught sight of a handcrafted gelato shop lighting up. I hesitated. The cold would sting his throat. But the expectation in his eyes-the first spark of normal childhood I'd seen since leaving the motel-broke my defenses. I stopped the convoy. He deserved even a moment of sweet, normal time. I'd let him have less.
We stood on the sun-drenched street, Angelo holding his strawberry cone. He carefully licked it, then coughed-once, twice-and smiled at me. I smiled back, ignoring the soreness in my bandaged hand, and took his other hand. For a second, he looked like an ordinary five-year-old boy, untouched by the Mafia's poison. But then, his little hand suddenly gripped my coat.
"Dad..." he whispered, his voice trembling.
I froze. Following his gaze across the bustling street, my blood ran cold.
Outside the gleaming window of a high-end jewelry boutique stood my ex-husband, Damian Valenti. He wasn't even looking at us. His entire attention was fixed on the woman in front of him-Serafina Richie.
With a tenderness I had never experienced, not even once, in our entire marriage, Damian placed a dazzling diamond necklace around Serafina's neck. She looked up, her eyes filled with love. Damian smiled-a gentle, genuine smile that melted away all his coldness-then lowered his head and placed a lingering kiss on her forehead.
The scene was flawless. It was a public display of their perfect, flawless happiness.
A poisoned blade twisted cruelly in my heart. This was no longer just about political power or family alliances. It was the complete erasure of my existence, replacing my son's home with a gleaming new toy.
I felt Angelo's small body trembling beside me. He didn't cry-he understood too early that tears wouldn't change anything. Instead, he buried his face in my coat and murmured, "I don't want him anymore, Mom. I only want you."
The raw, excruciating wound in my heart didn't break me; it hardened into a solidified crystal. I held Angelo tightly to my side, shielding him from the man who had abandoned us. The bandage around my half-healed hand throbbed with pain-this real pain kept me conscious. I stared at the happy couple across the street, letting that cold, unbreakable vow of revenge be etched deep into my very bones.
