Chapter 5 - THE MIDNIGHT VISITOR
The damp chill of the subterranean vault clung to Luca’s skin as he climbed back up the stone staircase, clutching the stolen dossiers to his chest like a man carrying stolen ammunition out of a war zone.
He slammed the hidden hearth panel shut with his heel, the heavy stone locking into place with a definitive, metallic thud.
He walked back to his desk, dropped the thick stack of Romano files onto the blotter, and sat down in the great leather chair. The silence of the study felt different now. It wasn't the silence of a sanctuary; it was the tense, coiled quiet of a powder keg waiting for a single spark.
Knock. Knock.
Two measured, polite raps on the heavy double doors.
Luca didn't look up from the files. "Enter."
The door swung open, and Isabella stepped into the study. She had changed out of her daytime wool coat into an emerald-green silk evening gown that caught the amber light of the desk lamp. She carried a crystal tumbler filled with amber scotch, her steps smooth and silent across the Persian rug.
"Working late, darling?" she asked, her voice carrying a sweet, musical cadence that made his stomach turn.
She walked around the desk, stopping just behind his shoulder. Her hand reached down, resting lightly on the back of the leather chair, her fingernails trailing dangerously close to his neck.
"I was reviewing some old family holdings," Luca said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.
Isabella leaned down, pressing her cheek lightly against his temple. "You shouldn't let business consume you, Luca. Father and I only want what's best for you. Once we’re married, we can streamline all of this. You won't have to worry about the domestic staff, or the messy details of the shipping contracts. Father’s legal team will handle everything."
She reached down to pick up one of the open dossiers resting on the blotter.
Her fingers brushed the corner of Elena’s federal protection file.
In a fraction of a second, Isabella’s posture changed. The relaxed, affectionate fiancée vanished. Her hand froze on the paper, and her breathing hitched.
"Where did you get this?" she asked, her voice dropping the musical sweetness, turning thin and sharp as a razor blade.
Luca didn't flinch. He slowly tilted his chair back, looking up into her eyes. The flawless, porcelain mask was gone, replaced by the cold, calculating cruelty of a true Romano.
"Downstairs," Luca said softly. "In the room your father built twenty years ago to keep my family on a leash."
Isabella didn't panic. She didn't drop her glass. She simply straightened up, stepping back two paces, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her painted lips.
"You always were smarter than your father gave you credit for, Luca," she laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "We knew you would find it eventually. That's why the wedding is in twelve weeks. By the time you unlocked the vault, the federal injunctions would already be signed, transferring all Moretti shipping assets to the Romano PAC. You wouldn't have had a choice."
She raised her glass, taking a slow sip of the scotch.
"And what about Elena?" Luca asked, his voice tightening like a steel cable. "Did you break her wrist yourself, Isabella? Or did you send one of your father’s enforcers into the staff quarters?"
Isabella’s eyes narrowed. "That little rat? She should have stayed hidden in witness protection where she belonged. She saw too much when she worked as my father’s secretary before she ran away. A traitor doesn't get to live quietly in a nursery, Luca. And neither does her bastard brat."
The air in the room vanished.
Luca stood up so fast his heavy oak chair tipped backward, crashing onto the Persian rug with a loud, thunderous crack.
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Isabella didn't even blink. She reached into the small clutch bag hanging from her wrist, her fingers wrapping around the grip of a pearl-handled snub-nosed revolver.
"Don't be dramatic, darling," Isabella purred, leveling the barrel straight at his chest. "You're a Moretti. You should understand that family always comes first. And right now, my family owns you."
