Bait on the Battlefield

Isabella Rossi's POV

The red dot of an infrared laser sight was locked dead center on my forehead.

350 yards away, a sniper from the Santoro famiglia was perched atop the tower.

Lorenzo Santoro's cold voice cut through my earpiece. "Target 01 is in position to test the blast resistance of the new ballistic glass. Countdown: tre, due, uno."

There was no hesitation.

With a deafening bang, the round slammed into the glass in front of me with massive force. Even though the pane held, the terrifying kinetic energy transferred through the barrier like a physical blow, rupturing my eardrum and rattling my skull.

The glass instantly spiderwebbed, a thousand silver fractures blooming in the light. A razor-thin splinter hissed through the air, grazing the corner of my eye. Blood beaded at once, mixing with cold sweat before trickling into my eye, stinging like acid.

I was Lorenzo's live target, codenamed 01.

Names didn't matter, and pain wasn't allowed. My role was simple—to replicate hostile operatives during his extravagant security exercises—or, at present, to serve as a living prop.

"Boss, defense standards met, but the impact point deviated slightly," the technician reported over the intercom.

Inside the observation room, Lorenzo sat on a velvet couch—a throne of his absolute power. His slender fingers tapped lightly against the table. Through the one-way glass, he watched the thin trail of blood tracing down my face.

For a split second, his fingers clenched.

In the past, if I had so much as pricked my finger while pruning roses, he would have dropped to one knee and pressed a devoted kiss to my hand, his eyes rimmed red with distress.

"Principessa Rossi," he would whisper. "Your blood is as precious as pearls. I can't bear to see a single drop fall."

But in the next heartbeat, the ruthlessness in his eyes crushed that ghost of a memory. Lorenzo chuckled, his voice carrying a chill through the static into my functioning right ear.

"What's the matter? Is the great Principessa Rossi scared? You were far more decisive when you threw me into that snake pit to save your own skin."

I lowered my gaze, my fingers digging into my palms until my nails pierced the skin. He still hated me for "abandoning" him during the famiglia war three years ago.

"Raise the price," I said into the mic.

Silence stretched for two agonizing seconds before a scoff came through. "Fine. We'll switch to armor-piercing rounds and run the test again. If you're still breathing when you leave that platform, you'll get one million dollars."

Armor-piercing rounds… At this distance, the already fractured glass wouldn't withstand them.

He truly wanted me dead. But I needed the money.

My Nonna, the Rossi matriarch, was burning through cash in the ICU, and the last remnant of our glory—the signet ring that symbolized our authority—was currently sitting in a black-market auction house.

I rose to my feet again, adjusting my stance to face the lethal red dot once more.

"Affare fatto, Boss. Deal done."

The second shot rang out.

With a thunderous crash, the glass shattered on impact, and the shockwave hurled me backward. A sickening crack echoed as the bone in my left arm snapped against the floor. Countless shards embedded themselves into my back and arms.

I lay face down amid the jagged debris, gasping for air. Through blurred vision, I saw Lorenzo emerge from the observation room in a bespoke black suit.

He loomed over me. His black leather shoe came down on my bloodied hand, grinding it into the floor with deliberate cruelty.

"Isabella, look at you now. Wagging your tail and begging for money like a stray."

He crouched, his fingers gripping my chin with bruising force. Those eyes, which once held nothing but loyalty and adoration, were now thick with intense hatred.

"You make me sick."

Cold sweat drenched my body as pain tore through me, but I still forced a stiff, broken smile.

"Don Santoro," I said hoarsely. "Are you satisfied? If so, pay up."

That sentence snapped his last thread of control.