The body was still warm when I arrived.
James met me at the warehouse entrance, his face grim. Blood splattered across the concrete floor led to where Tommy Castellano lay crumpled against a shipping container. Two bullets to the chest. One to the head.
Professional. Clean. Execution-style.
"How long?" I asked.
"Twenty minutes. Maybe less." James handed me a phone. "This was left on the body."
The phone screen showed a photo. Isabella walking through my penthouse. Wearing the white sweater Elena had given her yesterday. Her face caught in profile as she stared out the window.
Someone had been watching her.
Inside my home.
Rage flooded through me, cold and absolute. I crushed the phone in my hand until the screen cracked.
"Sweep the entire penthouse," I said quietly. The kind of quiet that made grown men step back. "Every room. Every camera. Every wire. Find out how they got this photo and eliminate whoever's responsible."
"Already started," James said. "But Dante, there's more."
He gestured to the wall behind Tommy's body.
Four words were spray-painted in red.
SHE'S NEXT. THEN YOU.
My jaw tightened until my teeth ached.
"Get Anthony on the phone. Now."
James pulled out his cell and dialed. Handed it to me after two rings.
"We have a problem," I said without preamble.
"I heard." Anthony's voice was steady. Always steady. That's why I'd made him my underboss ten years ago. "Tommy Castellano was one of ours."
"Tommy was one of Marcus's friends. They came up through the ranks together."
"You think this is about Marcus?"
"I think someone is sending a very clear message. They killed Marcus. Now they're killing everyone connected to him. And they're using Isabella as bait to draw me out."
"Then maybe you should give them what they want. Let the girl go. Remove the target."
My hand tightened on the phone. "No."
"Dante, she's a liability. She's making you predictable. Whoever's doing this knows you'll protect her. They're using that against you."
"I said no."
Silence stretched between us. Anthony knew better than to push when I used that tone.
"Fine," he said finally. "What do you need?"
"Everything on Marcus's last two weeks. Every person he met with. Every phone call. Every transaction. Someone knew he was going to die before it happened. Find out who."
"I'm on it."
I ended the call and stared at the message on the wall.
She's next.
Over my dead body.
I watched Isabella through the security monitors in my office.
She sat curled on the couch in her room, knees pulled to her chest, staring at nothing. She hadn't moved in forty minutes. Hadn't cried. Hadn't done anything except exist in that frozen state of shock I recognized too well.
She was grieving Marcus.
But she was also grieving the life she thought she'd have. The normal life. The safe life. The life where men didn't get shot on street corners and women didn't get kidnapped by mob bosses.
I understood that loss better than most.
I'd wanted a normal life once. Before my father was assassinated. Before I inherited an empire at nineteen. Before I became the youngest godfather in East Coast history and learned that power meant sacrificing everything soft inside you.
Including the ability to love without it becoming a weapon.
On the screen, Isabella finally moved. She stood and walked to the window. Pressed her hand against the glass like she could push through it and escape.
She couldn't.
I'd made sure of that.
My phone buzzed. A text from James.
Found the breach. Camera in the library. Planted three days ago. Removed and destroyed.
Three days ago. Before I brought Isabella here.
Which meant someone had been planning this before I claimed her at the funeral.
They'd known I would take her.
Had counted on it.
I pulled up older security footage. Scrolled back through the last week. Watched Isabella move through the penthouse like a caged animal. Testing boundaries. Looking for escape routes.
I should have found her annoying. Defiant women usually irritated me.
Instead I found myself fascinated.
She didn't break. Didn't beg. Didn't try to seduce me for freedom like most women in her position would have.
She just fought. Quietly. Constantly. With intelligence instead of tears.
It reminded me of someone.
Me, before power consumed everything.
Five years ago, Marcus Rossi walked into my office for the first time.
He was twenty-one, ambitious, sharp. His father had been a low-level enforcer who died badly, leaving Marcus and his mother with nothing. Marcus wanted more. Wanted to rise through the ranks. Wanted to prove himself.
I saw potential immediately.
Marcus was smart. Quick to learn. Loyal when loyalty mattered. I mentored him personally. Gave him opportunities others would have killed for. Watched him build a reputation as someone reliable.
For four years, everything was perfect.
Then he met Isabella.
I knew the moment it became a problem. Marcus started arriving late to meetings. Started questioning orders. Started talking about "getting out" and "starting fresh."
Men who want to leave create complications.
They make promises they can't keep. They become unpredictable. They forget where their loyalty belongs.
I called Marcus into my office six months ago.
"End it," I told him. "Whatever you have with this girl, end it. You're getting distracted."
Marcus looked at me like I'd asked him to cut off his own arm.
"I can't do that."
"You can. You will. Or you'll become useless to me."
"Dante, please. She's different. She's not part of this world. We're planning to leave together. Start over somewhere safe."
"There is no safe. There is no leaving. You know that."
"I love her."
The words hung in the air like a death sentence.
Love. The most dangerous weapon in existence.
"Then you're already compromised," I said coldly. "End it or I'll end it for you."
Marcus stood. His jaw was tight. His hands were fists.
"No."
It was the first and only time Marcus ever defied me.
I should have handled it then. Should have made an example. Should have shown him what happened to men who put women above loyalty.
Instead I gave him an ultimatum.
"Then you're no longer useful to me. Disappear or I'll disappear you."
Marcus left my office. I thought that would be the end of it. Thought he'd come to his senses. Thought he'd choose survival over love.
Two weeks later, he was dead on a street corner.
And I became the primary suspect.
I stood at my office window now, staring at the same city lights Isabella was probably staring at from her room.
Marcus's death wasn't my fault.
But I carried the weight of it anyway.
I'd threatened him. Pushed him. Made him desperate enough that maybe he'd reached out to the wrong people for help. Maybe my ultimatum had gotten him killed.
Or maybe someone had used my threat as cover. Killed Marcus and made it look like I'd followed through. Framed me while also starting a war.
Either way, Isabella became collateral damage.
My enemies knew I'd threatened Marcus. Knew there was tension between us. The moment Marcus died, they'd use Isabella to draw me out. Use her as proof I was losing control. Use her as bait to start a war that would destroy my organization.
The smart move was letting her disappear.
Instead, when I saw her at that funeral, I made a choice.
She'd stood there looking like a ghost. Like someone had hollowed her out and left nothing but a shell. Her face was pale. Her eyes were empty. She didn't cry. Didn't scream. Just existed in that frozen state of devastation.
And something in me recognized that look.
Because I'd worn it too. The day my father died. The day I inherited an empire I didn't want. The day I realized love was a luxury I could never afford.
Isabella reminded me of who I was before power consumed everything.
Someone capable of real love. Real loyalty. Real humanity.
Someone I'd buried so deep I'd forgotten he existed.
So I claimed her.
Not out of guilt over Marcus. Not out of obligation to a dead man's memory.
But because something in her absolute devastation made me want to protect her.
Even from myself.
My phone rang. Anthony.
"Talk to me," I said.
"I've got Marcus's phone records. Financial transactions. Meeting logs. There's something you need to see."
"What?"
"Marcus made seventeen calls to the same number in his last two weeks. Encrypted line. Whoever he was talking to knew how to hide their tracks."
"Can you trace it?"
"Already did." Anthony paused. "Dante, the calls were made to a burner phone registered to someone in your inner circle."
My blood went cold.
"Who?"
"I don't have a name yet. But whoever it is had access to your security protocols. Your safe house locations. Your protection details." Another pause. "They knew exactly when and where Marcus would be vulnerable."
The betrayal cut deeper than any bullet.
Someone I trusted had killed Marcus.
Someone I'd protected. Promoted. Given power to.
Someone who was now coming for Isabella.
"How many people have that level of access?" I asked quietly.
"Seven. Including me."
"Then we investigate all seven. Starting with you."
"Understood." Anthony didn't sound offended. In our world, trust was a luxury no one could afford. "What about the girl?"
I looked at the security monitor. Isabella had moved away from the window. She was pacing now, running her hands through her hair. Agitated. Scared.
Beautiful even in her fear.
"She stays with me. Under my personal protection."
"That's dangerous, Dante. If the traitor knows you're attached to her—"
"They already know. That's why they left that photo. That's why they're escalating." My jaw tightened. "Let them come. I want them to come. Because when they do, I'll be waiting."
"And if they kill her first?"
"They won't get the chance."
I ended the call and stood. Walked out of my office and down the hall toward Isabella's room.
I knocked once.
"Come in." Her voice sounded small. Uncertain.
I opened the door.
She stood in the middle of the room, arms wrapped around herself. Her eyes were wide and frightened.
"You said they left a message for me," she said. "What was it?"
I should lie. Should protect her from the truth.
But I'd already lied to her enough.
"They said you're next. And then me."
The color drained from her face.
"So I'm bait. I'm the target they're using to get to you."
"Yes."
"Then let me go. Let me leave. If I'm not here, they can't use me against you."
"No."
"Dante—"
"No." I walked closer. Close enough to see the gold flecks in her hazel eyes. Close enough to smell the lavender shampoo she'd used. "You don't leave my sight. You don't leave this penthouse. You don't take a single step without my permission. Because the moment you do, you're dead."
"So I'm a prisoner forever."
"You're protected. There's a difference."
"Is there?" Her voice broke. "Because it feels like I traded one cage for another. Marcus kept secrets and got killed for them. Now you're keeping me prisoner and people are dying because of me."
"People are dying because someone in my organization is a traitor. Not because of you."
"But if I wasn't here—"
"If you weren't here, you'd already be dead. And I'd—" I stopped myself.
"You'd what?"
I reached out and touched her face. Her skin was soft and warm. Her pulse jumped under my fingers.
"I'd regret it," I said quietly. "More than you know."
Her breath hitched. Those hazel eyes searched mine.
"Why? Why do you care what happens to me?"
Because you remind me of who I used to be.
Because something in you isn't broken yet.
Because when I look at you, I remember what it felt like to want something more than power.
But I couldn't say any of that.
So I said the only truth I could.
"Because you're mine now. And I protect what's mine."
Before she could respond, my phone rang.
James. Emergency line.
I answered immediately.
"Sir, we have a situation. Someone just breached the building security. They're in the elevator. Coming to your floor."
My entire body went rigid.
"How many?"
"Two. Armed. Professional."
I looked at Isabella. Her face had gone pale.
"Lock down the penthouse. Get every available guard to this floor. Now."
I ended the call and grabbed Isabella's wrist.
"We need to move. Now."
"What's happening?"
"They're here."
"Who?"
"The people who want you dead."
I pulled her toward the panic room hidden behind my office. My hand went to the gun holstered at my back.
The elevator dinged.
The doors opened.
And I realized with cold certainty that the war I'd been trying to prevent had just arrived at my doorstep.
With Isabella caught directly in the crossfire.