The abandoned warehouse suddenly felt too small with six armed men surrounding her, but Isabella kept her gun steady despite the tremor running through her hands. Marco's blood was still spreading across the concrete at her feet, and the acrid smell of gunpowder hung in the air like incense at a funeral mass. She had just committed her first murder, and now she faced a room full of strangers who could easily become her second, third, and fourth.
Dante stepped closer, his movements fluid and controlled like a predator who knew he held all the advantages. In the pale morning light filtering through the warehouse skylights, Isabella could see him more clearly – sharp cheekbones, olive skin, and dark hair that looked like he'd run his fingers through it. He was younger than she'd expected, maybe early thirties, with the kind of dangerous good looks that belonged in Italian fashion magazines rather than abandoned warehouses littered with corpses.
"You can lower the gun, Isabella," he said, his accent more pronounced now – definitely Italian, but refined, educated. "If I wanted you dead, you would be."
"Forgive me if I don't find that particularly reassuring," Isabella replied, surprised by the steadiness of her own voice. Her father had always said she was stronger than she knew, but she'd never imagined testing that theory over a dead body while facing down the Italian mafia.
Dante smiled, and the expression transformed his entire face. Where she'd expected coldness, she found something almost playful, like a chess master who'd just discovered a worthy opponent. "Fair enough. But perhaps we could discuss business somewhere less... aromatic?"
One of his men stepped forward, a mountain of muscle with scars running down one side of his face. "Boss, we should move. The Torrinos won't be far behind."
"Luca's right," Dante said, his eyes never leaving Isabella's face. "Marco was supposed to report in an hour ago. When he doesn't, Antonio will send soldiers to investigate. Unless you particularly enjoy the idea of explaining to them why their inside man is decorating the floor, I suggest we relocate."
Isabella glanced at Marco's lifeless form, feeling a strange mix of satisfaction and nausea. Three days ago, she'd been worried about midterm exams. Now she was standing over the corpse of her father's murderer while negotiating with mysterious Italian criminals. "Where exactly are you suggesting we go?"
"I have a safe house about twenty minutes from here. Neutral ground. We can talk properly there." Dante tilted his head slightly, studying her with those intense dark eyes. "Unless you prefer to handle the Torrino family war all by yourself?"
The word 'war' sent ice through Isabella's veins. She'd thought Marco's betrayal was the worst of it, that with him dead, her problems were solved. But the calculating look in Dante's eyes suggested she'd been naive.
"What war?" she asked, though part of her already knew she wouldn't like the answer.
"The one Antonio Torrino has been planning for months," Dante replied. "The one your father's death was just the opening move in. The one that's going to consume every family in this city unless someone stops it."
Isabella lowered her gun slightly, her mind racing. She was out of her depth – a college student playing in a world of killers and conspiracies. But she was also Vincent Rossi's daughter, and Rossi blood didn't run from fights.
"Fine," she said, sliding the gun into her jacket pocket. "Twenty minutes. But I drive myself."
Dante's smile widened, showing perfect white teeth. "I wouldn't dream of separating a woman from her independence. Luca will give you the address."
The safe house turned out to be a renovated brownstone in a neighborhood that had clearly seen better decades. From the outside, it looked like any other gentrified row house, complete with flower boxes and a fresh coat of paint. Inside, however, it was pure function over form – reinforced doors, security cameras, and furniture that looked designed more for interrogation than comfort.
Isabella accepted the espresso Dante offered her, mainly because she needed something to do with her hands. The caffeine hit her system like liquid courage, sharpening her focus and pushing back the surreal fog that had settled over her since Marco's revelation. She sat across from Dante in a leather chair that had definitely seen better days, while his men positioned themselves around the room like expensive, violent furniture.
"So," she said, setting down her cup with more force than necessary. "Explain to me how my father's death is just the beginning of some grand conspiracy."
Dante leaned back in his chair, completely relaxed despite the tension crackling through the room. He'd shed his jacket, revealing a black button-down that clung to what were obviously well-maintained muscles. Isabella found herself annoyed that she'd noticed.
"Antonio Torrino is ambitious," Dante began, his voice taking on the tone of someone explaining a particularly complex chess game. "He's been consolidating power for years, absorbing smaller families, making alliances, preparing for something big. But there were always two obstacles to complete dominance in this city – the Rossi family and mine."
"Yours?" Isabella interrupted. "And who exactly are the Morettis?"
"We control the southern territories – shipping, high-end art acquisition, certain pharmaceutical imports." His smile was sharp enough to cut glass. "Your father and I had an understanding. We stayed out of each other's way, occasionally did business together when it benefited both families."
"And now that he's dead?"
"Now Antonio thinks he can eliminate both our organizations in one swift campaign. He's already moved against three of my operations this week. Next week, it'll be your father's remaining lieutenants. By Christmas, he'll control everything from the docks to downtown."
Isabella felt the room spinning slightly. "What remaining lieutenants? Marco was my father's second."
"Marco was a traitor who's been feeding information to the Torrinos for months," Dante said bluntly. "Your father had other loyal men – Tony Ricci, who runs the construction crews; Michael Chen, who handles the import business; Frank DeAngelo, who manages the restaurants. All good men who are now walking around with targets on their backs because they refuse to bend the knee to Antonio."
The names were familiar – men who'd attended her father's funeral, who'd shaken her hand and promised to help if she needed anything. She'd thought they were just being polite. Now she realized they'd been making pledges of loyalty to their new don.
"They think I'm going to step into my father's role," Isabella said slowly, the full weight of her inheritance finally becoming clear.
"You are going to step into your father's role," Dante corrected. "The only question is whether you'll survive long enough to figure out how."
Isabella stood abruptly, pacing to the window that looked out onto a surprisingly normal street. A woman was walking a small dog, and somewhere a child was practicing piano badly. The mundane scene felt like looking through glass at another world.
"And what exactly are you proposing?" she asked without turning around.
"An alliance. Temporary, pragmatic, mutually beneficial." She could hear the smile in his voice. "The Moretti and Rossi families working together to eliminate the Torrino threat."
Isabella turned back to face him, studying his expression. "And after the threat is eliminated?"
"After? Well, that depends entirely on how well we work together." Dante stood as well, moving closer with that predatory grace she'd noticed at the warehouse. "I have a feeling we could accomplish quite a lot together, Isabella."
There was something in the way he said her name that made her pulse quicken. She'd dated in college, of course, but those had been boys playing at being men. Dante was something else entirely – dangerous, confident, and undeniably magnetic. She found herself taking a step back, bumping against the window.
"You're assuming I want to work with you at all," she said, annoyed at how breathless she sounded.
"You don't have a choice," Dante replied, closing the distance between them until she could smell his cologne – something expensive and masculine that made her think of midnight and bad decisions. "Antonio has already decided you're a threat. Your only options are to fight back or die trying to run."
"Maybe I'm not as helpless as you think," Isabella said, lifting her chin defiantly.
Dante's eyes dropped to her lips for just a moment before meeting her gaze again. "Oh, I don't think you're helpless at all. A helpless woman doesn't put a bullet in her father's killer without hesitation. A helpless woman doesn't stand in a room full of armed men and negotiate terms." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "But being capable and being experienced are two very different things."
Isabella's breath caught as he reached up, his fingers barely grazing her cheek. "You've killed one man, principessa. I've killed dozens. You've inherited a criminal empire. I've built one from the ground up. You need me whether you want to admit it or not."
She should have stepped away. Should have slapped his hand aside and told him to keep his distance. Instead, she found herself leaning almost imperceptibly into his touch, her body betraying her even as her mind screamed warnings.
"And what do you need from me?" she asked, proud that her voice didn't shake.
"Your legitimacy. Your father's contacts. Your family's territory." Dante's thumb traced across her cheekbone with feather-light pressure. "And perhaps... other things."
The moment stretched between them, heavy with possibility and danger. Isabella could feel her heart hammering against her ribs, could see the interest in his dark eyes, could sense the barely leashed power that radiated from him like heat from a fire.
Then Luca cleared his throat from across the room, and the spell broke.
Dante stepped back smoothly, his expression shifting back to business casual as though the last thirty seconds hadn't happened. But Isabella could see the satisfied glint in his eyes, the slight curve of his mouth that suggested he'd gotten exactly the reaction he'd wanted.
"So," he said, settling back into his chair with infuriating calm. "Do we have an alliance?"
Isabella remained by the window, trying to regain her equilibrium. Every instinct told her that Dante Moretti was dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with the gun she was certain he carried. He was the kind of man who collected people the way others collected art – for beauty, for value, and ultimately for possession.
But he was also right. She couldn't face the Torrinos alone, and her father's remaining men would need strong leadership to survive what was coming. If she was going to honor her father's memory and protect the people who'd depended on him, she needed allies.
Even if those allies came with complications.
"Fine," she said finally. "But I have conditions."
"I would expect nothing less from Vincent Rossi's daughter," Dante replied. "Name them."
"No one else dies who doesn't have to. My father's men get protection. And when this is over, we renegotiate everything from the beginning."
"Agreed." Dante stood and extended his hand. "Partners?"
Isabella looked at his outstretched hand, knowing that taking it would change everything. Three days ago, she'd been a college student with normal problems. Now she was about to shake hands with the devil himself and enter a world where betrayal meant death and trust was a luxury she couldn't afford.
She reached out and grasped his hand firmly, feeling the calluses that marked him as a man who'd done his own dirty work, the strength that promised protection and threatened destruction in equal measure.
"Partners," she agreed, even as a voice in the back of her mind whispered that she'd just made either the best decision of her life or the last one.