“Isabella,” he whispered, his voice trembling with a rage that shook the very foundation of the apartment. “She has been playing me like a puppet for seven years.”
Before I could answer, the hallway erupted in heavy, rhythmic footsteps. Marello’s security—not his regular guards, but the elite inner circle—flanked the door. Dante Russo stepped inside, his expression grim. “Boss, the Vitali estate is under lockdown. Isabella has moved the staff. She knows about the boy.”
Marello stepped back into the room, his demeanor shifting from a grieving man to the predator the city feared. He didn’t look at me with pity; he looked at me with an intensity that burned. He walked into the bedroom where Leo was playing with his blocks, unaware that the shadow of an empire was falling over him.