Chapter 002
The world outside the black SUV was a blur of muffled sounds and the rough rumble of a powerful engine. A thick blindfold stole her sight, and the tape over her mouth was a brutal silence. Isabella was a package, an object being moved. The humiliation burned hotter than her fear, but she forced herself to breathe slowly, evenly. She used the time to map her surroundings by sound and motion. A few sharp turns, a long stretch of highway, the crunch of gravel as they turned off onto a private road. This wasn't a quick trip to a nearby warehouse. This was somewhere far away.
When the car finally stopped, she was pulled out and guided by a firm hand. The air shifted, becoming still and warm, with the rich smell of old leather, woodsmoke, and something expensive she couldn't place. She was led up a few stairs, through a heavy door, and then the blindfold was finally ripped away.
She blinked, her eyes adjusting to a room that was a stark contradiction to her capture. It was a study, vast and dimly lit by a roaring fireplace. Bookshelves rose to the ceiling, filled with leather-bound volumes. A grand mahogany desk dominated the center, and a thick, hand-woven rug covered the floor. It was a place of power and quiet thought, not a prison. Her captors, the two men in black, left without a word, locking the heavy oak door behind them with a final, echoing click.
Isabella was alone. She allowed a single, ragged breath of relief to escape her lips. She walked to the window, pulling aside the heavy velvet curtain. It overlooked a dense, wooded area and a high stone wall. The location was beautiful, but it was still a cage. She tried the heavy, brass-handled door. Locked. She checked the fireplace flue and the built-in cabinets. No hidden passages, no easy escapes. She was well and truly trapped. A wave of fear threatened to drown her, but she pushed it down, turning it into a sharp, cold anger. The Bellafiores would not break her.
Hours passed, stretching into a tense, silent afternoon. Isabella's mind raced, replaying her limited knowledge of the Bellafiore family. They were ruthless, yes, but this level of planning, this kind of wealth...it spoke of a cold, calculating mind.
Just as the last light of the day began to fade, the lock on the door turned. Dominic Bellafiore entered the room alone. He was even more imposing without his men around him, a presence that filled the space. He held a glass of amber liquid in his hand, looking impossibly calm. He wore a dark, perfectly tailored suit that screamed of wealth and power, the kind her father wore. He looked like the devil wearing the clothes of an angel.
"Isabella DeLuca," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Welcome to your new home."
Isabella didn't flinch. She met his gaze head-on. "This isn't a home," she said, her voice sharp and clear, "it's a cage. And you are a coward for hiding behind masks to take me."
Dominic stopped in the middle of the room, a flicker of surprise in his dark eyes. He had expected tears, begging. He walked slowly toward the fireplace, setting his glass on the mantel. "I am a man keeping a promise," he said, the words full of a deep, simmering anger. "Your father took my brother from me. And now, I'm taking the one thing he loves most."
"My father's crimes are not mine," she said, her chin lifting defiantly. "I have done nothing to you."
He scoffed, a humorless sound. "You are a DeLuca. That is enough."
"Is it?" she challenged, taking a step forward. "So you're just like him, then? A man who thinks violence and revenge are the only ways to solve a problem? You think killing me will bring your brother back? It will only make you a monster, just like the man you hate."
Her words hit him with the force of a physical blow. He had prepared for her fear, for her pleas for mercy, but not for this. He had not prepared for her to look at him and see the truth, to call him out on his dark path. She wasn't a fragile, pampered girl. She was a woman of steel and fire, and she wasn't just fighting back; she was challenging his very soul.
Dominic's cold control wavered. He stared at her, truly seeing her for the first time—the fierce intelligence in her eyes, the proud line of her jaw. His mind, which had been so clear on its path of vengeance, was suddenly filled with doubt. This was not the simple act of taking a pawn. This was something else entirely.
"You're not what I expected," he said, his voice softer, a hint of confusion in his tone.
"Good," she replied, a triumphant glint in her eyes. "I hope you have a new plan, because your old one is very boring."
The unexpected courage in her voice broke the last of his focus. He turned away from her, staring into the flames. He had a job to do. Revenge. But the face of that revenge was now looking at him with a fiery spirit that made his heart beat a little faster. He couldn't kill her. Not like this. Not after seeing this. He turned, his face a mask of stone once more.
"We will see who is boring," he said, his voice low and dangerous, before turning on his heel and walking out, the heavy door clicking shut behind him. He left Isabella in her gilded cage, but he walked away with a new kind of prison in his own mind: the one that held the image of a defiant woman who refused to be a victim. And he was not sure how he would ever be free of it.