Chapter 3 - Blood Wine and Whispers of Treason
The Rossi estate, known throughout the region as Villa dei Sogni, was less of a home and more of a fortress perched atop the razor-sharp cliffs of Ravello. High stone walls topped with razor wire, biometric gates, and heavily armed guards patrolling the olive groves made it virtually impenetrable.
As the heavy wrought-iron gates swung open to let Gio’s convoy through, Isadora stared out the rain-streaked window. She had studied the blueprints of this compound for three years, memorizing every blind spot and camera angle, but seeing its looming, dark grandeur in person sent a shiver through her spine.
The car stopped before the grand double doors. Gio stepped out first, offering no hand, but waiting until she stepped out into the downpour. He led her through the grand entrance, where marble statues of Roman gods lined the vaulted foyer.
“Take her to the library,” Gio instructed Luca. “And bring me the reserve bottle of father’s 1982 Port from the cellar vault.”
“Gio,” an oily, smooth voice echoed down the sweeping marble staircase.
Isadora froze.
Descending the stairs was a man in his late fifties, dressed in a tailored velvet smoking jacket. His silver hair was slicked back, and his dark eyes carried the deceptive warmth of a serpent basking in the sun.
Arturo Rossi. Gio’s uncle, Roberto’s younger brother, and the man who had assumed control of the syndicate's financial logistics after Roberto’s death.
“Uncle Arturo,” Gio said, his voice carefully neutral. “I thought you were in Milan finalizing the port shipping contracts.”
“The weather delayed my flight, so I returned early,” Arturo said, his gaze immediately locking onto Isadora, dissecting her wet clothes, the cut on her jaw, and her fierce posture. “And who is this charming stray you’ve brought into our sanctum at two in the morning? A waitress from La Corona, if I’m not mistaken.”
Arturo knew who worked at the restaurant. That single detail confirmed Isadora’s darkest suspicions.
“A matter of internal security,” Gio replied dismissively. “Go back to bed, Uncle. We have the Syndicate Council in three days, and you need your rest.”
Arturo’s eyes flickered with annoyance, but he plastered on a jovial, paternal smile. “Of course, nephew. Just remember... family business should remain strictly within the family. Bringing outsiders behind these walls has ruined greater men than us.”
Arturo turned and disappeared into the east wing.
Gio waited until the sound of his uncle’s footsteps vanished before gesturing toward the heavy oak doors of the private library. He shoved them open, revealing floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a crackling fireplace, and a massive mahogany desk.
He locked the door behind them.
“You flinched when Arturo spoke,” Gio said, leaning against the edge of his desk and crossing his arms. “Why?”
Isadora walked straight to the roaring hearth, extending her hands toward the warmth. “Because your uncle didn't just know I worked at La Corona. He was the one who authorized my hiring there three months ago. He’s been watching to see if Roberto left any threads untied.”
Gio’s jaw locked. “Arturo loved my father.”
“Arturo coveted your father’s empire,” Isadora corrected sharply, turning around. “And he despises you because he thinks a thirty-three-year-old hothead doesn't deserve the throne. Check the port bottle, Gio. You don't have to believe my words. Believe the poison your uncle left behind.”
A knock sounded at the door. Luca entered, carrying a dusty, sealed bottle of port on a silver tray, along with a chemical testing kit that Gio had quietly requested via text.
Gio took the kit. His hands, usually as steady as a surgeon's, hesitated for a fraction of a second before he drew a sample of the dark wine with a syringe and mixed it into the chemical vial.
They all watched in silence.
Within ten seconds, the clear testing liquid turned a violent, murky violet.
Lethal digitalis.
Luca’s breath caught in his throat. “Dear God...”
Gio stared at the vial, the veins in his neck bulging as a terrifying, murderous fury consumed his face. The very wine his father had sipped every night before bed had been slowly stopping his heart—and Gio had unknowingly served it to him on multiple occasions.
Gio shattered the vial in his fist, crimson-stained glass piercing his palm. Blood dripped onto the Persian rug.
He didn't make a sound. He simply looked up at Isadora, his eyes burning with an unholy fire.
“Who the hell are you really, Isadora?” Gio growled.
May you like
Isadora pulled a small, ancient signet ring from her hidden pocket—a ring matching the one on Gio’s own pinky finger.
“I am Isadora Marino-Vance,” she said softly. “The daughter of Lorenzo Vance, the man who built the Rossi empire's foundations alongside your father. And from this night forward, Gio... I am the only person on this coast keeping you alive.”
