Chapter 4 - The Predator’s Dinner
The private study was dimly lit when Isabella Romano pushed open the door.
She wore a tailored charcoal-gray cashmere dress that hugged her slender frame, her dark blonde hair styled in loose, elegant waves that fell over her shoulders. She smelled faintly of expensive French jasmine—the very scent Aleandro had once associated with elegance and peace.
“Aleandro, darling,” Isabella said, her voice smooth and melodic as she glided across the Persian rug. “You wouldn't return my calls all afternoon. I was beginning to think you’d run off with a shipping container full of scotch.”
She reached up, her manicured fingers resting lightly against the lapel of his shirt, leaning in to offer a cheek for a kiss.
Aleandro did not flinch, but he did not pull her close either. He offered the customary greeting with mechanical precision, his eyes fixed on hers with an unnerving stillness.
“A series of corporate emergencies, Isabella,” Aleandro replied smoothly, gesturing toward the leather sofa near the fireplace. “Sit down. Let me get you a glass of wine.”
“Thank you, darling. Red, please—whatever heavy vintage you keep hidden from your accountants.” Isabella laughed softly, setting a sleek leather briefcase down on the edge of the mahogany desk—directly beside the walnut clock, which had been reassembled and hung back in its place, empty and silent.
Aleandro poured two glasses of Bordeaux, handing one to her before taking a seat opposite her in his high-backed leather chair.
“You seem distant tonight,” Isabella noted, swirling the dark red liquid in her glass, her sharp blue eyes studying his face with practiced scrutiny. “Is something wrong with the merger papers for the Newark shipping yards?”
“Nothing that can't be handled,” Aleandro said calmly. He took a slow sip of the wine, watching her through the rim of the glass. “In fact, I was reviewing our security protocols today. It’s fascinating how vulnerable a multi-billion-dollar estate can be if someone has the right clearance codes.”
Isabella’s hand paused halfway to her lips. A microscopic flash of tension crossed her features—so brief that ninety-nine men out of a hundred would have missed it. But Aleandro Moretti lived in the margins between heartbeats.
“Security?” Isabella asked, offering a light, musical laugh. “With Marco running your detail, nobody could sneak a mouse past the gates. You’re being paranoid, Aleandro.”
“Perhaps,” Aleandro murmured. He set his glass down on the desk with a soft clink. “Or perhaps I’ve simply realized that the greatest breaches don't come from the outside. They come from the people we invite into our homes. The people we trust with our secrets.”
Isabella’s smile faltered, her blue eyes narrowing just a fraction. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Aleandro said, standing up slowly from his chair, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the room, “that I found something interesting yesterday afternoon.”
“Aleandro, what are you talking about?” Isabella asked, her voice sharpening, losing its melodic sweetness. She stood up as well, setting her wineglass down on the side table.
“A child walked into this office,” Aleandro said, his voice dropping into a low, lethal register that echoed off the oak panels. “A four-year-old girl who didn't know about syndicates, or federal indictments, or corporate espionage. She only knew that a pretty lady had climbed onto a red chair and hidden something inside my father’s clock.”
The color drained from Isabella’s face so fast it looked as though someone had struck her across the cheeks.
For three seconds, she stood frozen, the polished society heiress evaporating to reveal the desperate operative beneath. Then, her posture snapped straight, her eyes turning glacial and hard.
“You searched the clock,” she whispered, her voice no longer sweet, but sharp as broken glass.
“I did,” Aleandro replied, stepping closer to her. “A military-grade burst transmitter. Streaming every conversation in this room straight to an external server. Tell me, Isabella—did you sell my shipping routes to the Chicago syndicate, or were you hoping the federal task force would hand you a clean slate once they locked me away?”
Isabella let out a harsh, bitter laugh. She didn't bother denying it. The mask was gone, and the sheer contempt she had harbored beneath her polite smiles finally burst into the open.
“You arrogant bastard,” Isabella spat, her chest heaving beneath the cashmere dress. “You thought you could buy me? You thought I was just another trophy wife to sit at your right hand while you played Don of Brooklyn? My father built half the trade routes you stole! You locked him out of the Newark docks three years ago!”
“Your father tried to launder cartel money through my logistics network,” Aleandro corrected coldly. “I spared his life. I let him keep his name and his freedom.”
“And you treated me like a prisoner in silk!” Isabella hissed, taking a sudden step backward toward the desk. Her hand flashed down to the brass latch of the sleek leather briefcase she had brought with her. “You think you’ve won? You think because you found my bug that you’re safe?”
Before Aleandro could cross the distance between them, Isabella threw open the briefcase.
May you like
Inside was not a stack of documents, but a heavy tactical detonator wired with a flashing red LED light.
“The moment I entered this estate, my father’s security team logged my signal,” Isabella said, her eyes wild with manic triumph as her thumb hovered over the activation button. “If I don't check in via encrypted ping every thirty minutes, the secondary payload wired to the main gas line beneath the west wing detonates. This entire house—and everyone inside it—goes up in flames.”
