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Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Vengeance

Chapter 003

​The heavy door clicked shut, leaving Isabella in the grand study once more. The silence was heavier this time, filled with the echo of their sharp words and the deep, raw pain she had seen flicker in Dominic's eyes. A small, fierce thrill coursed through her. She had not begged. She had not cried. She had stood her ground and, for a moment, she had seen the man falter. She had seen the surprise in his eyes, the tiny crack in his icy mask. It was a small victory, but it was enough to fuel her fight.

​She walked back to the fireplace, her mind racing. Who was this man, Dominic? His revenge was cold, but his pain felt real. She looked around the room, no longer just a cage but a window into his soul. The books on the shelves were not just for show; she saw worn copies of ancient histories and war strategies, but also poetry and classics by authors like Dante. He was not just a brute. He was complex, a man of violence who also sought wisdom and beauty. She felt a strange mix of pity and fascination for him. He was a monster, yes, but he was a monster born from grief.

​Across the sprawling house, in his private office, Dominic stared out a window into the inky blackness of the night. The amber liquid in his glass was untouched. His mind was a battlefield. He had a simple, clear plan, one he had lived with for months. Revenge. But Isabella DeLuca's words had turned that clear path into a hazy, confusing fog.

​You will only make yourself a monster.

​Her voice was an unwelcome whisper in his mind. He walked to a small table and picked up a framed photo—his younger brother, Luca, smiling brightly. The pain of losing him was a familiar ache, a driving force. "I will not fail you," he whispered to the photo, a promise he had made long ago. But the image of Isabella's defiant face, not her father's, was what he saw. Her courage was a light he hadn't known he would find in this dark place. Why did her opinion matter? Why did her challenge hurt more than any of her father's attacks ever had?

​Later, Dominic found his most trusted man, a large, quiet enforcer named Marco, standing guard by the study door.

​"She hasn't made a sound," Marco said, his voice a low rumble.

​Dominic simply nodded. "Good. Stay here. Don't let her out, and don't let anyone else in."

​Marco gave a curt nod. "Sir, your father has been asking for an update on the girl."

​Dominic's jaw tightened. "Tell him she is safe. Tell him the plan is moving forward. And tell him to leave it to me." He felt a sharp jolt of anger. His father. The man who had put this plan in his head, whose vengeance was the fuel for this entire operation.

​As night fully settled, Dominic returned to the study, a silver tray in his hands with a simple, steaming bowl of pasta and a glass of water. He set it on the desk without a word, the clang of the silver breaking the quiet. Isabella watched him, her eyes guarded but curious.

​"Are you going to poison me?" she asked, a small smirk on her lips.

​He ignored her jab, his expression unreadable. "Eat."

​"You took me from my home in the middle of the night and you expect me to have an appetite?" she said, but her stomach betrayed her with a loud rumble.

​Dominic's lips curved into the slightest of smiles, gone almost as soon as it appeared. "Your family is still a threat. It is in my best interest for you to be strong."

​She sat down at the desk, picking up the fork. "Tell me about your brother," she said quietly, surprising even herself.

​Dominic's face hardened, the brief moment of warmth gone. "That is not your concern."

​"It is, if his memory is the reason I'm here," she pressed, her voice gentle but firm. "I need to know what you're fighting for, Dominic. I need to understand what you think my father did to you. Was he just a part of the family, or did he work with you?"

​He sighed, running a hand over his face. He found himself answering before he could stop. "He was not a fighter. He was an artist, a musician. He wanted nothing to do with the family business. He was… my anchor. He was killed because of a deal that went bad. My father swore it was your father's doing."

​Isabella listened, her fork forgotten. She saw the pain in his eyes, a pain so deep it was a ghost in the room with them. "And you believe him? Your father told you this?"

​"I saw the results," he said, his voice raw.

​"Dominic," she began, her tone soft, "my father is a proud man. He is cold, and he can be ruthless. But he is not without a code. He would not have hurt a person with no part in the fight." She paused, her eyes searching his. "Was there a witness to the deal? Anyone else who could confirm what happened?"

​He looked at her, his anger fighting with a strange, new doubt. This woman was his enemy, a DeLuca, but she was telling him things that felt like a truth he had never considered. He felt the firm ground of his revenge begin to tremble.

​He turned to leave, the tray still untouched. "Eat," he ordered one last time. As he reached the door, she spoke again, her voice quiet but firm.

​"I am not just the daughter of your enemy, Dominic. I am Isabella. And if you truly want to honor your brother's memory, you will find the truth. Not just what you've been told."

​He stopped, his hand on the doorknob. He stood there for a long moment, the silence thick with the unspoken. He didn't turn back. He simply opened the door and stepped out, the click of the lock a final, heavy sound.

​He left her there, no longer just a captive, but a puzzle. And as he walked away, he knew his revenge was no longer a simple plan. He went straight to his desk, grabbing his phone. "Marco," he said, his voice low and sharp. "Get me a team. I need you to go back to the records of my brother's deal. Find everything. Every person involved. Every detail. And do it without a word to anyone, especially my father. I want the truth." The war had begun, not against the DeLucas, but inside his own mind. He was fighting the very foundation of his revenge, all because of the defiant woman in the study who was starting to make him question everything he believed.

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