Page 21

21

Isadora

Blood roars in my ears as I stand frozen between father and sons. The warehouse air hangs thick with tension, gunpowder, and the metallic scent of blood—mine from my split lip, Luca’s from the graze on his temple, Stefano’s streaming down his neck, and a few gunned down guards.

Giancarlo steps forward, his expensive shoes clicking against concrete with the authority of a man who’s spent decades believing he was God. His amber eyes—so like Stefano’s—survey the scene with calculated coldness. The resemblance between both of them hits me like a physical blow. Father and firstborn son are mirror images. Only separated by time and cruelty.

“What a family reunion,” Giancarlo says, his voice carrying the casual arrogance of someone who’s never faced consequences. “My eldest, back from the dead. My heir, holding a gun to his own fiancée’s throat.”

Luca’s grip on me tightens, his pistol pressing hard enough against my neck that I’ll wear its imprint for days—if I survive that long.

“Father,” Luca’s voice betrays his fear beneath the practiced calm. “I can explain—”

“Explain what?” Giancarlo cuts him off. “That you’ve known your brother was alive for years and kept it from me? That you’ve been plotting behind my back? Or that you’ve managed to lose control of the De Angelis bride before she even reaches the altar?”

I watch Stefano’s face, cataloging the minute shifts in his expression—the tightening around his eyes, the almost imperceptible clench of his jaw. He’s calculating, measuring distances, assessing threats. Even with blood soaking his collar, his focus remains razor-sharp. For twenty years, he’s prepared for this moment.

“No explanations needed,” Stefano says, his voice deadly quiet. “Not when the truth is standing right here.” His eyes meet mine briefly, a flicker of something desperate and protective passing between us. Hold on, his gaze promises. This ends tonight.

Giancarlo laughs, the sound echoing off metal rafters like breaking glass. “The truth? You want the truth, Stefano?” He steps closer, seemingly unconcerned with the tension crackling through the air. “The truth is neither of you deserves the Calvino name.”

With a gesture that carries the weight of command, more men step from the shadows—Giancarlo’s personal guard, eight of them, weapons drawn and aimed at both sons. My heart sinks. We’re outnumbered.

“You.” Giancarlo points at Luca. “My chosen heir. Weak. Undisciplined. Plotting against your own father.” His gaze shifts to Stefano. “And you. The ghost. Twenty years planning revenge, only to be undone by a pair of pretty green eyes.”

Heat blooms in my chest at his dismissive assessment, but beneath it lies a kernel of truth that catches in my throat. Did I compromise Stefano’s plan? Did my diary—my careless, lovesick ramblings—lead us all to this moment?

Giancarlo circles us like a shark scenting blood. “What a disappointment you both are. One son I thought dead turns up alive, plotting my destruction. The other proves to be more treacherous than an enemy.”

I feel Luca stiffens behind me at being compared to an enemy. He knows what happens to enemies. The gun at my throat wavers for just a second—long enough for me to catch Stefano’s eye and telegraph my intent.

“Tell me,” Giancarlo continues, oblivious to the silent communication between us, “did you really believe either of you could take what’s mine? That I wouldn’t see it coming?”

“Is that why you killed my mother?” Stefano asks, his voice dangerously soft. “Because you feared she was going to take what was yours? Or you had her killed to clear the path for your mistress?”

Giancarlo’s expression darkens. “She was weak. She would’ve destroyed everything I built.” His gaze shifts to me, calculating. “Much like the De Angelis girl threatens to do now.”

The way he looks at me—like I’m nothing but a liability, a pawn that’s outlived its usefulness—sends ice through my veins. In that moment, I know with absolute certainty that he plans for none of us to leave this warehouse alive.

“Enough talk,” Giancarlo says, gesturing to his guards. “Disarm them both.”

As a guard approaches Stefano, I see his muscles tense, ready to strike. It’s now or never.

I slam my head backward into Luca’s face, feeling the satisfying crunch of cartilage as his nose breaks. His grip loosens in shock, and I twist away, dropping to the floor as gunfire erupts around us.

Chaos explodes through the warehouse. I scramble for cover behind a rusty machine, heart thundering against my ribs. Through a haze of gunsmoke, I see Stefano dive behind a concrete pillar, returning fire with lethal precision. Luca, blood streaming from his broken nose, exchanges shots with his father’s men from behind an overturned metal table.

For a surreal moment, the brothers are united against a common enemy—the father who betrayed them both.

“Isadora!” Stefano’s voice cuts through the cacophony of gunfire. “Stay down!”

I press myself against cold concrete, searching desperately for a weapon, a way out, anything to help turn the tide. My fingers close around a jagged piece of metal—a broken pipe with a wicked edge. Not ideal, but better than nothing.

A shadow falls across me, and I look up into Giancarlo’s cold eyes. Somehow, during the chaos, he’s circled behind the firefight to reach me.

“You,” he says, gun aimed at my heart. “You’re the reason for all this.”

Before I can react, he grabs my arm, yanking me to my feet and pressing the barrel of his gun to my temple.

“ENOUGH!” he roars, and the gunfire stutters to silence. “Drop your weapons, both of you, or the girl dies!”

My eyes find Stefano’s across the warehouse. Time seems to slow as our gazes lock, a lifetime of longing compressed into seconds. I see the war raging in those amber depths—twenty years of vengeance versus the terrifying possibility of losing me.

“Don’t,” I mouth, tightening my grip on the metal shard hidden in my palm. I can see the moment he understands my intent, the almost imperceptible nod that passes between us.

“Last chance,” Giancarlo presses the gun harder against my temple. “Weapons down, or—”

I drive the jagged metal into his thigh with every ounce of strength I possess. Giancarlo howls, his grip loosening just enough for me to twist away. At the same moment, Stefano and Luca both fire.

Time fractures into jarring snapshots: Giancarlo staggering backward, crimson blooming across his pristine white shirt. Luca disappearing through a side exit, a trail of blood marking his path. Guards scattering like cockroaches exposed to light.

And Stefano, moving toward me with single-minded focus, eyes never leaving mine.

The burning pain in my side registers a heartbeat later. I look down to see red spreading across my shirt, wet and warm. “Oh,” I say, suddenly lightheaded. “That’s not good.”

Stefano reaches me just as my knees buckle, catching me against his chest with a desperate curse. “Isadora! Please stay with me.”

“Not going anywhere,” I manage, though my voice sounds distant to my own ears. “Is he...?”

“Wounded, not dead,” Stefano answers, lifting me into his arms. His heartbeat hammers against my cheek as he navigates through the warehouse toward the exit. “Luca vanished. We need to move before reinforcements arrive.”

The world blurs as he carries me through the rain to a waiting car. Pain pulses through me with each heartbeat, but I focus on Stefano’s face—on the fierce determination in his eyes, the tight set of his jaw, the smear of blood along his temple that I want to wipe away.

“Hold on,” he says, settling me in the passenger seat. “Just hold on, Isadora.”

The car roars to life, tires squealing as we tear away from the warehouse. I press my hand against my side, feeling the warmth seep between my fingers. Not fatal, I think hazily. Too low for major organs. Just hurts like hell.

“Your head,” I mumble, noticing the blood still trickling down his neck. “You’re hurt.”

His laugh is sharp with disbelief. “You’re shot and worried about my head?”

“Your brain’s your best feature,” I say, a weak attempt at humor as darkness nibbles at the edges of my vision. “Need to protect it.”

Stefano’s hand finds mine, squeezing tight. “Stay awake, Isadora. Talk to me.”

“Where are we going?” The world outside blurs into streaks of neon and shadow as he weaves through late-night traffic.

“Safe house. Doctor waiting.” His voice sounds strained, tight with something that might be fear. “Twenty minutes. Just stay with me for twenty minutes.”

I try to focus on his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his lips that have traced every inch of my body, the eyes that saw past every mask I’ve worn. Even bleeding and desperate, he’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

“Stefano,” I whisper, needing to say it while I still can. “I love you.”

His breath catches, hands tightening on the steering wheel. “Don’t. That sounds like goodbye, and I’m not losing you. Not now. Not ever.”

The car accelerates, the world outside becoming a meaningless blur. I drift in and out of consciousness, anchored only by Stefano’s voice as he alternates between desperate demands that I stay awake and quiet, broken Italian that sounds like a prayer.

“Keep your eyes open, principessa . We’re almost there. Just hold on. Per favore, amore mio , stay with me.”

The darkness grows heavier, more insistent. I feel myself floating away despite my best efforts, Stefano’s voice becoming more distant with each ragged breath.

The last thing I hear before consciousness slips away completely is his voice, raw and broken, finally saying the words he’s been holding back.

“I love you too, Isadora. Don’t you dare leave me now.”

And then there is only darkness, warm and welcoming, pulling me under like the tide.