"I'm going to kill her if she lies to me."
Adrian Morello's voice cut through the night like steel on flesh as he loaded a round into the Beretta's chamber. Three bodies were already cooling in the southern garden — Romano's soldiers, executed clean by his men. But one was still missing, and the timing was too perfect to be coincidence.
Wedding night. No alarms. Target: Him.
Either Isabella was clueless… or she was playing her part a little too well.
He moved like a storm through the hallways of the Morello estate, Antonio flanking him, two guards behind. "Do a full sweep," Adrian ordered. "I want the last one alive — if he's still breathing."
"And your wife?"
Adrian didn't answer.
He kicked open the double doors to the master bedroom without knocking.
Isabella stood by the full-length mirror, veil off, hair down, wedding dress peeled halfway down her back. A glass of red wine rested on the dresser beside her — untouched.
Her eyes met his through the mirror.
"You're early," she said calmly.
Adrian raised the gun. "Where's the last man your father sent?"
She turned slowly, unfazed by the weapon in his hand or the cold fury in his eyes. "You think I invited a hitman to our honeymoon?"
"Romano's men are dead in my garden. Four heat signatures. Only three accounted for."
"Maybe the fourth tripped on your ego and died quietly."
Adrian moved in two strides. He had the barrel pressed to her chest before she could blink.
Isabella didn't flinch. She looked at the gun, then up at him. "If I were going to betray you, I wouldn't need four idiots to do it."
"You'd do it yourself?"
"I'd wait until you were naked and asleep."
Adrian lowered the gun an inch. "That's cute. But I don't sleep."
"Then we have something in common."
The tension was sharp enough to draw blood. He searched her eyes for a flicker of guilt, fear, anything.
Instead, she reached beneath the folds of her dress — and pulled out a silver blade.
Adrian's hand twitched toward his trigger.
But she didn't stab.
She offered it, hilt first.
"I don't trust your security," she said. "I sleep with steel."
Adrian took the knife. Examined it. Italian make. Balanced. Real.
"She's either crazy," Antonio muttered from the door, "or we've been set up."
"Both," Adrian muttered back.
The comm buzzed.
Antonio stepped out to answer, then returned with steel in his voice. "We found the last one."
"And?"
"Dead. Shot in the back. Someone got to him before we did."
Adrian's jaw tightened. "Romano?"
"No ID on who. But there's more."
Antonio held up a phone wrapped in plastic.
"Found this in the shooter's jacket."
Unlocked.
Still warm.
Adrian opened the last message.
"She's not on our side. Kill her first."
— Marco Romano
He looked up slowly. At his bride. The pawn. The threat.
"Your father just marked you for death."
Isabella's face stayed perfectly still.
Then she smiled — small, slow, venomous.
"Guess that means I'm officially yours now."
Adrian dropped the phone. "Not if I bury you first."
Flash. Movement.
The window exploded inward as a bullet tore through the air — missing Adrian's head by inches.
Both hit the ground at the same time.
Glass rained across the room.
Adrian rolled behind the desk, pistol raised. Isabella crawled behind the overturned wine cabinet, eyes wild.
"Sniper?" she gasped.
Adrian scanned the angles. "Wrong trajectory. That came from inside."
Inside the estate.
Another shot rang out — and this time, it hit.
A guard's scream echoed from the hallway.
Adrian grabbed Isabella's wrist and yanked her to her feet.
"Let's see how well you use that knife," he growled. "Because tonight, it's not just your father trying to kill you."
"Lead the way, husband," she said, gripping the blade.
They burst out of the room together — into smoke, screams, and the sound of war inside the Morello house.