Chapter 3

I heard them before I saw them.

Heavy footsteps in the foyer, the kind that made the floorboards groan and the crystal chandelier tremble on its chain. Then voices, low and commanding, filling up the downstairs like smoke pouring through a cracked window.

Carmen was banging on my door again, but this time her soft, manipulative sweetness was gone. She was frantic.

"Isabella! Isabella, open this door right now!" Her fists were pounding so hard the hinges rattled. "There are men downstairs. Dangerous men. Your father is terrified and this is all your fault. Whatever you have done, you need to come out and fix it before they destroy us."

I sat on the edge of my bed and let her pound. Let her scream. Let her voice crack and splinter against the wood while I counted the seconds in my head.

In my old life, I would have been the one trembling. I would have rushed downstairs barefoot and apologized for existing, begged these powerful strangers to forgive whatever crime my family had committed, thrown myself between my parents and danger like a human shield made of nothing but desperate love.

But I was not that girl anymore. That girl was dead. She died tied to a beam in a warehouse with zombie teeth in her skin and her own father's voice ringing in her ears, telling them to finish her off.

"Isabella!" Carmen's voice was shaking now, raw with real fear. "Sal Ferrante is in our living room. Do you understand what that means? He is the most dangerous man in Creston Bay. He could wipe our family off the map in a single phone call."

I smiled at the ceiling. Sal Ferrante. The Iron Fist. Which meant Dominic had received my message, and he had not just sent a lawyer. He had come himself, with the kind of firepower that made billionaires sweat.

"I will come out when you give me three million dollars." I kept my voice perfectly calm, like I was ordering breakfast instead of extorting my own mother. "Transfer it now and I will open the door."

"Three million? Have you completely lost your mind?" Carmen's voice climbed so high it nearly shattered. "There are criminals in our house and you are asking for money?"

"Those are not criminals, Carmen. Those are my guests." I examined a loose thread on my pillowcase without any rush. "And the price just went up to three million because you woke me from a very peaceful nap. Wire it or I am going back to sleep."

I could hear her sobbing on the other side of the door, that ugly, gasping kind of crying that happens when someone realizes they have no power left. Then her footsteps stumbled away down the hall, and I knew she was running to Victor.

It took them four minutes. My phone buzzed with the notification. Three million dollars. Added to the one million from earlier, that gave me four million in liquid cash and the beginning of everything I needed.

I stood up, smoothed my hair, and opened the door.

Carmen was standing in the hallway with mascara running down her cheeks and her silk robe twisted around her waist. She looked at me with pure hatred dressed up as maternal concern, and I walked past her without a single word.

The living room of the Moretti Mansion was built to impress. Marble floors, imported Italian furniture, oil paintings in gold frames, and a crystal chandelier worth more than most people's houses. It was the kind of room designed to make visitors feel small.

But the man sitting in the center of it made the room feel small instead.

Dominic Valenti.

I recognized him the instant I stepped through the archway, even though this version of him was younger than the one I had known. The same sharp jawline, the same dark eyes that looked right through you and read every secret written on your bones. The same presence that filled a room the way water fills a glass, all the way to the edge, with no space left for anyone else.

He was sitting in my father's favorite armchair like he owned it. Like he owned the house and everyone in it. Marco Bellini stood behind him with a leather briefcase and the quiet, lethal composure of a man who had destroyed empires with paperwork. And off to the side, Sal Ferrante leaned against the marble fireplace with his arms folded, watching Victor Moretti sweat through his dress shirt.

My father was standing in the corner of his own living room, pale as a corpse, trembling so badly that the ice in his whiskey glass was clinking against the sides. He had the look of a man who had just realized that every safety net he ever relied on was made of paper.

"Dom." The nickname left my lips before I could stop it, warm and familiar, like greeting an old friend after a thousand years apart.

Dominic's eyes found mine. Something shifted behind them, something deep and quiet that I could not name, but it made my chest feel tight in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

"Isabella." His voice was low, smooth, rich like dark coffee, and it wrapped around my name like he had been practicing saying it. "You look exactly the way I imagined you would."

I felt heat crawl up the back of my neck. In my old life, Dominic had never looked at me with that kind of focused, burning attention. He had saved my life and kept me safe, but I had always been wounded, starving, covered in blood and dirt. He had never seen me whole. He had never seen me standing tall with fire in my eyes instead of tears.

"You came fast." I stopped a few feet away from him, keeping my voice steady even though my pulse was doing something embarrassing. "I was not sure you would believe me."

"I did not believe you." His lips curved into a half smile, the kind that was more dangerous than a loaded gun. "But I could not afford to ignore it either. A name like that does not show up in a stranger's text message by accident."

"Mr. Valenti." Victor's voice came from the corner, cracked and breathless. "I do not know what my daughter told you, but whatever it is, I can assure you she is exaggerating. She has always been a dramatic, ungrateful child and anything she has promised you, the Moretti family will honor without her involvement."

Dominic did not even look at him. His eyes stayed on me, steady and warm, and the complete dismissal of Victor's existence was more devastating than any insult could have been.

"Sal." Dominic's voice was quiet, almost casual. "Handle the rest of the situation here. Make sure the family understands their position. I am taking Isabella with me."

Sal Ferrante straightened up from the fireplace, and the temperature in the room dropped by ten degrees. He turned to face Victor with the slow, deliberate patience of a man who did not need to raise his voice to terrify people.

"Mr. Moretti." Sal's words came out like gravel scraping against iron. "From this moment forward, you do not contact Isabella unless she reaches out first. You do not speak about her to the press, to your business partners, or to those four little princes from the Great Families. And you absolutely do not cross Dominic Valenti. Not today. Not ever. Do we understand each other?"

Victor's whiskey glass slipped from his fingers and shattered on the marble floor.

Carmen, who had crept into the doorway behind me, let out a strangled gasp and clutched the frame for support. Her eyes darted between Sal, Dominic, and me, trying to calculate how her insignificant, countryside raised daughter had attracted the attention of the most powerful man on the eastern seaboard.

I felt nothing for either of them. Not pity. Not satisfaction. Just the cold, clean emptiness of someone who had already mourned these people a long time ago.

Dominic stood from the armchair in one fluid motion and extended his hand toward me. Not grabbing. Not pulling. Just offering, with his palm open and his dark eyes holding mine like a promise he had not spoken yet.

I took his hand.

His fingers closed around mine, warm and steady, and we walked out of the Moretti Mansion together without looking back. I heard Victor's voice behind us, small and broken, asking Sal Ferrante what the four heirs were supposed to do now that they could not stay in prison without destroying the entire alliance.

I did not care. That was his problem now. He had chosen Serena. He had chosen the fake daughter over the real one. And now the real one was walking out the door with the one man in the world who could crush every family in Creston Bay without breaking a sweat.

The night air hit my face as we stepped onto the porch, cool and sharp, carrying the salt smell of the bay. A black SUV was waiting in the circular driveway with its engine running.

Behind us, Sal Ferrante's voice echoed through the mansion like a warning bell, reminding Victor and Carmen Moretti exactly how small they were, exactly how fragile their empire had always been, and exactly what would happen if they ever forgot it.