Chapter 2 - THE COLD RAIN ON THE PAVEMENT
The diamond ring lay motionless against the dark mahogany.
Nobody breathed.
The salon chandelier hummed with low, steady electricity.
Rain battered the high arched windows behind Isabella Rossi.
She did not wait for Dante to answer.
She did not look at Sophia’s trembling hands.
She picked up her handbag from Marco’s grip.
Her fingers were steady.
Her pulse hammered behind her temples, but her spine remained straight.
"Isabella," Dante said.
His voice was a razor wrapped in velvet.
It had silenced armed capos and bought politicians.
It did not stop her.
Her heels clicked against the marble floor.
Each step was deliberate.
Each step tore another stitch from two years of devotion.
"Marco," Dante commanded without turning his head.
"Close the gates."
"If you lock me in this house," Isabella said without stopping, "you will need armed guards to keep me here."
She reached the grand foyer.
The air was cooler near the heavy double doors.
A young guard reached for the brass latch to block her.
"Touch that lock," a voice barked, "and you lose the hand."
It was Marco.
The security chief had followed her into the hall.
His weapon remained holstered, but his eyes were hard as flint.
He looked at Isabella with quiet remorse.
"Miss Rossi," Marco murmured. "Take a driver."
"No."
"The rain is freezing."
"I would rather freeze than breathe their air for another second."
She pushed the heavy carved door open.
The autumn wind slammed into her face.
Rain instantly soaked through her silk blouse.
It washed the scent of expensive estate lilies from her skin.
She walked down the curved stone steps into the storm.
Behind her, the estate glowed like an ornate cage.
In an upper parlor window, a shadow moved.
Carlo Moretti stood looking down into the courtyard.
He held a glass of dark liquor.
He was not looking at the gates.
He was watching the driveway behind her.
Isabella pulled her coat tight against her chest.
She reached the bottom of the private lane.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
Three missed calls from Dante.
Then a text message from an unknown number:
Keep walking down the hill if you want to know who bought the replica.
Her breath caught in her throat.
A replica.
She stopped beneath the yellow glow of a rusted streetlamp.
The wind whipped wet hair across her mouth.
Headlights cut through the blinding sheets of water behind her.
A long black sedan crept along the curb.
Its windows were blacked out.
The engine purred like a sleeping cat.
Isabella stepped onto the wet asphalt, ready to run.
The rear door clicked open.
A man leaned out from the shadows of the backseat.
He wore a dark fedora and leather driving gloves.
"Get in, Miss Rossi," the man said.
His voice was raspier than Dante’s.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
The man tilted his hat up.
A deep scar ran across his left eyebrow down to his lip.
"I am the man who cut the real sapphire out of Sophia’s necklace three days ago."
A sudden crack echoed through the trees.
A high-caliber bullet shattered the sedan's side mirror into dust.
May you like
The driver slammed his foot on the accelerator.
The rear door swung shut, leaving Isabella standing alone in the crosshairs.
