The DeLuca mansion had always felt like a fortress. Guards at every entrance, cameras on every wall, loyal men ready to die for Leonardo's name.
But betrayal is a poison that seeps from within.
Three nights after the failed attack on the estate, Isabella woke to the muffled sound of footsteps. At first, she thought it was just another patrol, but then she saw it—the flicker of a flashlight sweeping across their bedroom door.
Before she could wake Leonardo, a chloroform-soaked cloth clamped over her mouth. Strong arms pinned her down, muffling her screams as darkness swallowed her whole.
When Isabella came to, the world was cold, reeking of oil and sea salt. She was tied to a chair in a dimly lit warehouse. Chains rattled as men with Russian tattoos moved around her.
Then he appeared.
Dmitri Volkov walked in with the casual grace of a predator. Tall, sharp-featured, his ice-blue eyes glittered with malice as he smiled at her.
"Mrs. DeLuca," he said smoothly, his Russian accent curling around her name like smoke. "You are even more beautiful than the rumors."
Isabella's heart pounded, but she refused to cower. "You won't get away with this," she spat. "Leonardo will kill you."
Volkov chuckled, circling her like a vulture. "Ah, yes… the great Leonardo DeLuca. A legend in Italy, a terror in New York. But legends fall, my dear. And when I break him, it will be because of you."
He crouched in front of her, his icy gaze locking on her belly. "He's made you his queen," Volkov said softly, almost reverently. "And soon, you will help me destroy him."
Isabella glared at him. "I'll never help you."
Volkov's smile widened, chilling her blood. "Oh, you will," he whispered. "Because you love him. And I know how to make love… hurt."
Back at the mansion, chaos reigned. Leonardo stormed through the halls like a beast unchained, his roar shaking the walls.
"Find her!" he bellowed at his men. "Lock down every port, every road. Tear this city apart until you bring her back to me!"
Marco approached, pale and tense. "Boss… we found out how they got to her."
Leonardo froze, his gaze deadly. "Who?"
Marco swallowed hard. "Sofia. The maid. She slipped the Bratva information about our security and drugged Isabella. She's gone… ran off right after the kidnapping."
For a moment, silence fell. Then Leonardo's fury erupted like a bomb. He smashed a glass decanter against the wall, shards flying like shrapnel.
"She worked in my home," he growled, voice low and venomous. "She breathed my air… and betrayed my wife."
Marco hesitated. "What do you want done when we find her?"
Leonardo's eyes turned pitch-black with rage. "I'll handle Sofia myself," he said. "But first… Dmitri Volkov dies screaming."
By nightfall, Leonardo had gathered every loyal soldier, armed to the teeth. Trucks loaded with heavy weapons lined the estate. Marco stood ready at his side.
But Leonardo wasn't dressed for war.
He stood in black slacks and a blood-red shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, a holstered gun at his hip. There was no armor, no fear—only raw, unrelenting wrath.
"Boss," Marco said quietly, "this is a trap. Volkov wants you to come after him."
Leonardo slid a fresh magazine into his gun with a deadly click. "Good," he said coldly. "Because when I find him, there won't be enough left of Volkov to bury."
In the warehouse, Volkov leaned lazily against a table as Isabella glared at him from the chair.
"Your husband will come," Volkov said conversationally. "And when he does, my men will end him. Then you and I will have… a little chat about ruling his empire together."
Isabella's laugh was bitter and sharp. "You don't know him," she said. "Leonardo won't die. But you… you'll wish you had."
Before Volkov could respond, a deafening explosion rocked the warehouse. The metal door blew off its hinges, and men screamed as bullets ripped through the room.
Leonardo had arrived.
He moved like a shadow of death, twin pistols in his hands, every shot precise and lethal. His men followed, tearing through the Bratva soldiers like a storm of vengeance.
"LEONARDO!" Volkov bellowed, drawing his own weapon.
Leonardo didn't answer with words—he answered with bullets, charging straight for him. Volkov's men fell in seconds.
When Leonardo reached Isabella, he dropped to his knees, his hands trembling as they cupped her face.
"Bella…" he rasped, his voice breaking for the first time. "Are you hurt?"
Isabella shook her head, tears streaming. "I knew you'd come," she whispered.
He kissed her fiercely, a mix of desperation and promise, before rising and turning to Volkov.
"You touched my wife," Leonardo said, his voice a deadly calm that chilled even his own men. "Now you pay."
Volkov sneered, firing his gun, but Leonardo was faster. With a brutal, precise shot, he disarmed the Russian, then tackled him to the ground.
The fight was savage—Leonardo's fists a blur of pure rage, Volkov's blood painting the floor. Finally, Leonardo pinned him, pressing a gun to his temple.
"You wanted a war," Leonardo growled. "But all you get is hell."
With a final, echoing shot, Dmitri Volkov's reign ended in blood.
Later, as dawn painted the sky, Leonardo carried Isabella out of the burning warehouse. His men cleared the path, silent witnesses to their king's fury and devotion.
At the SUV, Isabella clung to him, sobbing into his neck. "I thought I'd never see you again," she cried.
Leonardo kissed her forehead, his voice rough with emotion. "I told you, bella," he whispered. "No one takes you from me. Not even the devil himself."
As the convoy drove back to the mansion, Leonardo held her in his lap the entire ride, one hand caressing her stomach protectively.
But deep inside, beneath the relief and love, one thought burned like fire in his mind:
The Bratva was only the beginning.
A darker enemy still lurked in the shadows—one that even Leonardo DeLuca might not be able to destroy.