Isabella POV
The St. Regis suite was a temporary sanctuary, a place to scrub the sterile, pathetic stench of the hospital from my skin. I discarded the clothes I’d worn like shedding a weak skin. In their place, I donned my armor: a floor-length, midnight-blue silk gown that clung to my curves, paired with stiletto heels sharp enough to draw blood. Tonight wasn't a family dinner; it was a war council.
Downstairs, the rain had settled into a relentless, freezing mist. Damien’s armored Maybach sat idling at the curb, a massive black beast waiting to swallow me whole. Damien stood by the open rear door, his jaw tight, wearing a fresh suit that couldn't hide the violent tension radiating from his broad shoulders.
I didn't look at him as I slid into the cavernous back seat. The scent of expensive cream leather and his lingering, rain-dampened cologne immediately enveloped me. He moved to follow, his large hand gripping the doorframe as he prepared to slide in beside me and claim his territory.
I shifted my gaze to him, my expression carved from ice. "I need my space. Ride up front."
He froze. The streetlights caught the lethal, incredulous flash in his dark eyes. For a split second, the Don of the Moretti family looked ready to drag me out onto the wet pavement and remind me who ruled New York. His knuckles turned white against the doorframe. But he couldn't touch me. He needed me to play my part for the Chairman, and we both knew it.
The muscle in his jaw feathered. Without a single word, he withdrew. He slammed the heavy armored door shut with a force that shook the chassis. A moment later, the front passenger door opened and closed violently.
The engine purred as we pulled away from the curb. Immediately, the thick, bulletproof glass partition glided upward with a soft hum, sealing me in a private, soundproof cage. It physically severed the Don from his wife, reducing the most feared man in the city to a chauffeur's companion.
The darkness of the back seat was absolute, save for the rhythmic flash of passing city lights. I reached into my clutch and pulled out a secondary, heavily encrypted burner phone. My thumb hovered over the screen as I pulled up the contact for my chief Enforcer.
Entering the Moretti den. Proceed as planned. No backup required. Stay dark.
I hit send to Marco 'The Ghost' Bellini.
The screen went black, and I slipped the phone back into my bag just as the city skyline gave way to the desolate, winding roads of Long Island. Through the rain-streaked window, the gothic silhouette of the Moretti Estate loomed into view. The massive wrought-iron gates, bearing the imposing 'M' crest, slowly parted. Two stone-faced Soldiers stood guard in the downpour, their eyes tracking the Maybach as it rolled onto the gravel drive toward the sprawling, dimly lit manor.
