The text had come at three in the morning, buzzing against Isabella's nightstand like an angry wasp. She'd barely slept since the will reading two days prior, her mind churning through the impossible reality of her inheritance. When she saw Marco's name on the screen, relief flooded through her finally, someone who could help her make sense of this nightmare.
"Emergency. Found evidence about your father's death. Meet me at the old Meridian warehouse on Pier 47. Come alone. Trust no one else. – M"
Isabella stared at the message, her heart hammering against her ribs. Evidence about her father's death? She had assumed it was his heart the stress of running a criminal empire finally catching up to him. But Marco's urgent tone suggested something far more sinister.
She dressed quickly in dark jeans and a black hoodie, her hands shaking as she pulled on her boots. The gun her father had insisted she learn to use – "just in case, principessa" – felt foreign and heavy in her jacket pocket. She had never imagined she would need it outside the shooting range, but something about the late hour and Marco's cryptic message made her skin crawl with unease.
The drive to the docks took twenty minutes through empty streets slick with October rain. Pier 47 sat at the industrial edge of the harbor, where legitimate shipping gave way to darker commerce. The Meridian warehouse loomed against the gray sky like a concrete tomb, its windows dark and broken, weeds growing through cracks in the loading dock.
Isabella parked her BMW between two shipping containers, the sound of her car door closing unnaturally loud in the pre-dawn silence. The air smelled of salt, rust, and something else – something organic and unpleasant that made her stomach turn. Seagulls wheeled overhead, their cries sharp and mocking.
"Marco?" she called out, her voice barely carrying over the sound of waves lapping against the pier. "I'm here."
A side door creaked open, and Marco's familiar silhouette appeared in the shadows. But something was wrong. His usual confident posture was replaced by something more predatory, more calculating. Even in the dim light, she could see that his face wore an expression she had never seen before cold and alien.
"Isabella, thank you for coming." His voice was different too, stripped of the warmth that had defined their relationship her entire life. "We need to talk."
She followed him into the warehouse, her hand instinctively moving to her jacket pocket. The space was vast and empty, filled with the echoing drip of water from a leaking roof. Pale morning light filtered through dirty skylights, casting everything in sickly yellow tones. Their footsteps echoed off concrete walls covered in graffiti and rust stains.
"You said you found evidence about my father's death," Isabella said, stopping near the center of the warehouse. Something felt wrong – deeply, fundamentally wrong. The hairs on her neck were standing up, and every instinct her father had trained into her was screaming danger.
Marco turned to face her, and in the better light, she could see his expression clearly for the first time. There was no grief there, no loyalty, no affection. Instead, his eyes held something that looked almost like satisfaction.
"I did find evidence," he said slowly, his hands clasped behind his back. "I found it because I created it."
Isabella's blood turned to ice. "What are you talking about?"
"Your father was a good man, Isabella. Too good for this business. He was going soft in his old age, making deals with law enforcement, talking about legitimizing the family operations." Marco began to pace, his voice taking on the tone of a man delivering a lecture. "The other families were starting to notice. The Torrinos especially. They saw weakness where Vincent saw wisdom."
"Marco, you're scaring me." Isabella's hand was fully in her pocket now, fingers wrapped around the grip of her father's .38. "What does this have to do with—"
"I killed him." The words cut through the warehouse like a blade. Marco stopped pacing and looked directly at her, his weathered face completely calm. "Not with my own hands – I'm not that foolish. But I arranged it. Digitalis in his morning coffee. Enough to trigger a massive heart attack in a man with his existing condition. Clean, quiet, impossible to trace."
The world seemed to tilt sideways. Isabella felt like she was falling even though her feet were firmly planted on the concrete floor. "You're lying."
"I wish I were, sweetheart." The endearment sounded obscene coming from his mouth now. "But Vincent was going to destroy everything our family built. He was talking to FBI agents, Isabella. He was going to turn state's evidence in exchange for immunity and a new identity for both of you. He was going to betray every man who ever bled for the Rossi name."
"He wouldn't—" Isabella started, but the words died in her throat. Her father had been different in his final months, more distant, more worried. She had attributed it to stress, but now she wondered if he had been carrying the weight of an impossible decision.
"He would, and he was going to." Marco's voice hardened. "So I made a deal with the Torrinos. They wanted the Rossi territory, and I wanted to make sure our people didn't go down with a sinking ship. I feed them information about Vincent's plans, they help me eliminate him before he can destroy us all, and then..."
"And then what?" Isabella's voice was barely a whisper.
Marco smiled, and it was the most terrifying thing she had ever seen. "And then I help them eliminate his heir. Vincent's daughter, tragically killed in a gang shooting while visiting her father's old haunts. The grieving family friend who tried to save her but couldn't. The last obstacle to the Torrino takeover, removed with everyone's sympathy intact."
Isabella's training kicked in before her mind could fully process what was happening. As Marco reached inside his jacket, she was already moving, diving behind a concrete pillar as the first gunshot echoed through the warehouse. Chunks of concrete exploded where her head had been a split second before.
"Nothing personal, Isabella!" Marco called out, his voice echoing strangely in the vast space. "But you were never supposed to be part of this world anyway. Your father made sure of that. Consider this a mercy!"
Another shot rang out, and Isabella pressed herself against the pillar, her heart hammering so hard she thought it might burst. This was Marco – the man who had taught her to drive, who had carried her on his shoulders at street festivals, who had been her father's most trusted friend. Now he was hunting her like an animal.
She forced herself to think past the terror. The warehouse had multiple exits, but Marco was positioned between her and most of them. The loading dock was behind her, but it was a straight shot across open ground with no cover. Her only advantage was that she knew he would expect her to run, not fight.
"You know what the funny thing is?" Marco continued, his footsteps echoing as he moved to flank her position. "Your father actually figured it out at the end. Right before the digitalis stopped his heart, he looked at me with those disappointed eyes and said, 'Marco, how could you?' Like I was the one betraying him instead of the other way around."
Rage flooded through Isabella, burning away the fear and confusion. Her father had died knowing his most trusted friend had betrayed him. He had died alone, afraid, and betrayed by someone he loved like a brother.
She pulled out her gun, checking the chamber with hands that were surprisingly steady. Six shots. She had six chances to end this, to make Marco pay for what he had done.
"The Torrinos promised me a position in their organization," Marco went on, his voice closer now. "Underboss, maybe even consigliere eventually. All I had to do was deliver them the Rossi empire gift-wrapped. And you, Isabella... you were always going to be the final gift."
Isabella took a deep breath, remembering everything her father had taught her about shooting. Breathe. Aim. Squeeze, don't pull. She stepped out from behind the pillar, her gun raised, and found Marco barely ten feet away with his own weapon pointed at her chest.
For a heartbeat, they stared at each other – the girl who had trusted him completely and the man who had destroyed her world.
"I'm sorry, principessa," Marco said, and for just a moment, his voice carried an echo of genuine regret. "But this is how it has to end."
Isabella pulled the trigger.
The gunshot was deafening in the enclosed space. Marco stumbled backward, his eyes wide with shock, a red stain spreading across his white shirt. His gun clattered to the concrete as he pressed his hands to his chest, staring down at the blood seeping between his fingers.
"You actually..." he gasped, falling to his knees. "Vincent... taught you well."
Isabella kept her gun trained on him, her hands rock-steady despite the horror of what she had just done. "He taught me never to trust anyone completely. I should have listened."
Marco looked up at her, and for a moment, she saw the man she had known her entire life – confused, hurt, almost childlike in his surprise. Then his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed forward onto the concrete, blood pooling beneath him.
Isabella stood over his body, her gun still raised, waiting to see if he would move again. He didn't. The warehouse fell silent except for the distant sound of seagulls and her own ragged breathing.
She had killed a man. She had taken a life with her own hands. The girl who had worried about failing organic chemistry had just executed her father's murderer without hesitation. The realization should have horrified her, but instead, she felt oddly calm. This was justice. This was what her father would have wanted.
The sound of vehicles approaching broke through her thoughts. Car doors slammed, footsteps echoed on concrete, and suddenly the warehouse was full of men in dark suits. Isabella spun around, her gun raised, expecting Torrino soldiers come to finish what Marco had started.
Instead, she found herself face to face with a man she didn't recognize – tall, dark-haired, with intense eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. Behind him stood six other men, all armed, all watching her with expressions of surprise and what might have been respect.
"Isabella Rossi, I presume," the stranger said, his voice carrying a slight accent she couldn't place. "My name is Dante Moretti. I've been tracking Marco Santori for the past week."
Isabella kept her gun pointed at him. "Who are you?"
"Someone who knew your father well enough to know he didn't die of natural causes." Dante's eyes flicked to Marco's body, then back to her face. "And someone who arrived just a little too late to help you with your... problem."
"Are you with the Torrinos?"
Dante smiled, and it was sharp as a blade. "Quite the opposite. I'm here to help you destroy them."