Chapter 2

Isabella's POV

The massive doors slam shut behind me. I'm inside. Safe. Maybe.

My bare feet slip against cold marble as I sprint down a hallway. Ornate sconces cast warm light across the walls.

The sound of my pursuers pounding on the door spurs me forward. My heart hammers against my ribs as I race down the corridor, my wet dress leaving a trail across the pristine floor.

"Open this door!" Viktor's voice carries through the thick wood. "We know she's in there!"

"Boss wants her alive, but if she runs again, shoot her in the legs!"

Their threats drive me deeper into the mansion. Voices. I hear voices coming from somewhere ahead.

"—the shipment from Palermo arrives Tuesday—"

"—can't afford delays with the Feds breathing down our necks—"

"Marco, you worry too much," a woman's voice laughs.

I follow the sound, desperation overriding caution. A door stands slightly ajar at the end of the hall, warm light spilling through the gap. Without thinking, I burst through it.

The scene that greets me stops me cold.

It's a study fit for royalty. Floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with leather-bound books. A massive mahogany desk. And there, in the center of it all, stands a man I'd hoped never to see again.

Marco Salvatore.

He's exactly as I remember him. The same dark hair, now perfectly styled. The same sharp jawline. He's wearing a black Armani suit, perfectly tailored. On his left hand, the Salvatore family ring catches the light.

Around him, three women in expensive evening gowns laugh at something he's just said.

"—and that's why I never trust a man who wears a Rolex," one of them giggles.

"You're terrible, Marco," another purrs. "What about men who wear Patek Philippe?"

"Ah, bella," Marco's voice is smooth, charming. "Those men are far more dangerous."

For a moment, nobody moves. The women stare at me like I'm some wild animal that's wandered into their pristine world.

Marco's eyes lock with mine, and time seems to freeze.

God, he looks exactly the same.

Three years. Three years since I last saw that face, and it still makes my chest tighten with longing and rage.

"Isabella." My name falls from his lips like a prayer. Or maybe a curse.

The sound of splintering wood echoes from somewhere behind me. They've broken down the front door.

"They're here," I whisper, my voice barely audible. "They followed me."

Marco's expression shifts. The momentary vulnerability I thought I saw vanishes, replaced by something cold and calculating. This is the man who rules New York's underworld with an iron fist. The man who sold me to hell.

A different memory surfaces, one that still makes my stomach turn.

I was sitting in the backseat of Connor's car, handcuffs cutting into my wrists.

"Where are you taking me?" I'd asked, though part of me already knew.

Connor's eyes had met mine in the rearview mirror. He looked sick. "I'm sorry, Isabella. I tried to talk him out of it."

"Talk him out of what?"

But Connor just shook his head and kept driving.

When we arrived at the docks, Antonio Benedetti was waiting. Even from a distance, I could see his predatory smile.

"Marco's little princess," he'd called out as Connor dragged me from the car. "I've been looking forward to this."

That's when it really hit me. Marco hadn't just cast me out. He'd sold me. Like I was property.

The last thing I remembered clearly was Antonio's laugh echoing off the warehouse walls as they dragged me into the darkness.

"Marco," one of the women says, her voice sharp with annoyance. "Who is this person?"

"She looks like she crawled out of a sewer," another adds.

But Marco isn't looking at them. He's looking at me with an expression I can't read.

The door behind me explodes inward.

A man in black tactical gear fills the doorway, his gun raised and pointed directly at my head. Viktor, one of Antonio's favorite killers. The same man who used to drag me to the "entertainment rooms" when clients paid extra.

"End of the line, sweetheart," Viktor says, his Russian accent thick with satisfaction. "Time to come home."

Home. The word makes bile rise in my throat.

The women scream and scatter, their expensive heels clicking against the marble as they flee.

Only Marco remains, still as a statue, his eyes never leaving the gunman.

"You have something that belongs to the Benedetti family," Viktor continues. "And Mr. Antonio doesn't appreciate thieves."

"I'm not going back," I say, my voice stronger than I feel. "I'd rather die first."

"That can be arranged," Viktor smirks. "But boss prefers you breathing. Says he has unfinished business with his favorite little whore."

Marco finally speaks, his voice calm and deadly. "You're in my house."

Viktor's eyes flick to him dismissively. "This doesn't concern you, paisan. Just hand over the girl and we'll be on our way."

"Everything that happens under my roof concerns me," Marco replies. "And right now, you're pointing a gun at a woman in my study."

"She's Benedetti property," Viktor snarls. "Bought and paid for. Three years ago."

"Is that so?" Marco's lips curve into something that might be called a smile. "And what makes you think I give a fuck about Benedetti property rights?"

"Because smart men don't start wars over used goods," Viktor replies. "This bitch isn't worth the trouble."

"Used goods?" Marco's voice drops to a whisper. "Interesting choice of words."

I close my eyes, waiting for the shot that will end this nightmare. My whole body tenses as I brace for impact.

The gunshot comes, sharp and deafening. The sound reverberates off the marble walls, so loud it makes my ears ring. I expect to feel the burn of the bullet.

But I'm still standing.

My eyes snap open, confused. Why am I still breathing?

Viktor is crumpling to the floor like a marionette with severed strings, his gun clattering across the marble. A neat hole has appeared in the center of his forehead. Dark blood spreads beneath his head in an expanding pool.

He's dead. Viktor is dead.

My gaze shoots across the room to find Marco.

He's moved. In the space between heartbeats, Marco's gone from casual observer to predator, a smoking pistol steady in his right hand.

His face is what stops my breath. Completely calm. Almost bored. Like he's just completed some mundane task instead of ending a human life.

His Armani suit isn't even wrinkled. His breathing hasn't changed. Only the thin wisp of smoke curling from his gun proves anything happened at all.

"No one brings violence into my home uninvited," he says, his voice carrying that quiet authority that makes grown men wet themselves. "Not even Benedetti dogs."

He killed for me. The thought hits like a physical blow. Marco Salvatore just killed to protect me.

My legs turn to water. I grab the nearest chair to keep from collapsing, my knuckles white against the leather.

Marco's eyes shift to me, taking in my white-knuckled grip and the way I'm swaying. For just a moment, something flickers across his face. Something that might have been concern.

Then it's gone.

Why?