All Chapters of The Debt of Passion: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

The moment the call ended, Isabella gripped the phone, her knuckles turning white. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, drowning out everything else. Lorenzo was already watching her, his expression unreadable, but she knew that look—it was the calm before a storm. “Talk,” he said, voice clipped. Isabella hesitated. Every instinct told her she shouldn’t have answered that call, but it was too late to backtrack. “That was him.” Lorenzo’s fingers flexed at his sides. “And?” A lump formed in her throat, but she forced herself to speak. “He says he’s done playing games. He wants a meeting—tonight.” Silence settled over the room like a heavy fog. Lorenzo exhaled slowly, but his posture shifted—tense, dangerous. “Where?” “He didn’t say,” she admitted. “He said he’d send the details soon.” One of Lorenzo’s men, Elias, let out a humorless chuckle. “Sounds like a setup.” “Of course, it is,” Lorenzo muttered. He turned back to Isabella, his gaze dark and assessing. “And you’re not going.”

The ride to Mateo’s location was tense. Lorenzo sat in silence, his fingers drumming against his knee, while Isabella stared out the window, lost in her own thoughts. The weight of everything that had happened in the past few days settled heavily between them. The threats, the unknown enemy lurking in the shadows, and now the truth about her brother—each revelation had been a punch to the gut. Lorenzo finally spoke. “Are you sure you want to do this?” His voice was calmer than she expected, but there was an underlying warning in his tone. Isabella met his gaze. “I don’t have a choice.” “You always have a choice,” Lorenzo countered. “But if we’re doing this, we do it on my terms. No unnecessary risks.” She didn’t argue. Not because she agreed, but because she knew he wouldn’t budge. When they pulled up to the meeting spot, a secluded warehouse on the outskirts of the city, Isabella’s heart pounded. The air smelled of rust and oil, and the dim streetlights barely illuminated the ar

Lorenzo stood in the surveillance room, eyes fixed on the grainy black-and-white footage looping across several monitors. Dozens of angles—city streets, rooftop views, warehouse corridors—but no sign of Adrian. He watched the moment again: the smoke grenade exploding, the blur of movement, Adrian slipping between the shadows like a ghost with unfinished business. “Sir,” Diego said behind him, his voice low and grim. “We scrubbed the rooftop. He left nothing.” Of course he didn’t. Adrian had been trained by the best. By me, Lorenzo thought grimly. He turned, jaw clenched. “Widen the perimeter. Triple-check our internal security logs. Have Luca sweep the Castellano safehouses—every one of them.” Diego gave a single nod and left without question. Miguel, standing at the corner with a tablet in hand, glanced up. “I ran facial recognition through every known database. Adrian doesn’t exist anymore,” he said. “Not officially.” Lorenzo leaned over the console, both palms braced agains

The wind swept across the Castellano estate like a whispered warning. Lorenzo stood on the balcony outside his room, a glass of scotch in one hand, his phone in the other. His eyes scanned the dark horizon, but his thoughts were far from the view. Adrian was back. Moretti was closing in. And Isabella—God, Isabella—was unraveling truths faster than he could protect her from them. Behind him, the door clicked open. Diego stepped inside, his presence crisp and silent. “We have something,” he said. Lorenzo turned, gaze sharp. “Go on.” “We traced a burner connected to the sniper team that hit Mateo. They didn’t just leave the city—they went underground. Old tunnels, forgotten safehouses. One location pinged recently in the old district.” Diego handed over a printed satellite image. “Looks abandoned. But there’s movement. Security feeds cut around the same time Adrian vanished from the rooftop.” Lorenzo’s eyes narrowed. “And the timing?” “Last night. Same hour Isabella got t

The sun hadn’t fully risen, but the Castellano estate was already awake. A hush hung over the grounds—not the silence of rest, but the kind that came before a storm. Men moved in tight formations, double-checking patrols, reinforcing gates. Inside, corridors buzzed with hushed voices and the click of polished shoes on marble floors. Isabella stood alone in the great hall, staring up at the towering mural of the Castellano lineage. Dark-eyed patriarchs, fierce-looking matriarchs, each painted to look as if power ran in their blood. But nowhere in the mural was there room for someone like her. She wasn’t born into this world. She had been thrown into it—bargained, betrayed, and buried under lies. But now she stood at its center. Behind her, heavy doors opened. Lorenzo entered, dressed in black. Not the ceremonial kind. The kind that meant war. “The Council will arrive by noon,” he said. Isabella didn’t turn. “They’ll question everything.” “They always do.” She finally looked at