Chapter 22 – Ashes Carried Home
The drive back to the Wilson estate was a suffocating silence, the kind that made every sound sharper. The purr of the engine, the faint rattle of loose gravel beneath the tires, even the faint metallic click when Marcus adjusted his grip on the steering wheel it all pressed on Isabella's nerves like tiny knives.
The acrid scent of smoke still clung to her coat and hair. She had stood too close to the blaze, too close to the destruction the Raccis had orchestrated. The docks had burned, and though Isabella had stood tall before her men, fury roared inside her chest with every passing minute.
Beside her, Camilla shifted uncomfortably. Her cousin had been quiet the whole ride, her fingers twisting the gold ring on her index finger. Camilla was not timid never timid but she had learned to measure her words around Isabella. Tonight, however, restraint was not from fear, but from uncertainty.
Isabella caught her reflection in the window: black coat, sharp eyes, ash flecked on her cheekbones. She looked less like a mafia heiress and more like a specter risen from war. And maybe that was exactly what the Raccis wanted.
When the wrought-iron gates of the Wilson estate swung open, the guards stepped back quickly, bowing their heads in deference. The car rolled up the long driveway, past rows of cypress trees standing like sentinels. Even under the moonlight, the villa looked imposing its white stone walls pristine, its tall windows glowing faintly with candlelight. But to Isabella, it felt more like a fortress than a home.
Marcus parked sharply at the steps. Before the driver could even open the door, Isabella pushed it aside and stepped out. Her heels struck the marble stairs with the rhythm of a war drum. The guards saluted, but her gaze never wavered. She moved through the grand entrance as if she owned not just the house, but the world it stood on.
Inside, the tension thickened. Men lined the hall, lieutenants and soldiers, their whispers cutting off as she passed. Their eyes flicked to her coat, the soot on her skin, the storm in her face. Reports lay scattered on the oak table damage assessments, guesses of who had ordered the strike, rumors already flying through Palermo like wildfire.
The Wilsons had survived worse, yes. But tonight had rattled something deeper.
Marcus slammed the door shut behind them and barked an order: "Out. Now."
The men cleared out quickly, leaving only the core family in the cavernous hall. The silence that followed was heavier than before.
Marcus turned to Isabella, voice low but firm. "Sit. Think. Don't move until you've cooled down."
Isabella spun on him, eyes blazing. "Don't command me, Marcus."
He didn't back down. He never did. His scarred hands curled at his sides, his square jaw clenched. "I'm not commanding. I'm keeping you alive. You charge blindly again, and the Raccis won't have to kill you they'll just wait for you to do it yourself."
Isabella's chest rose and fell with ragged breaths. She wanted to shout, to unleash the fire burning in her throat. But something in Marcus's gaze the weight of years, the burden of his loyalty made her pause.
The silence stretched. And then, softly but firmly, another voice cut through it.
"She doesn't need silence, Marcus," Camilla said, stepping forward. "She needs to be heard."
Both Isabella and Marcus turned to her in surprise. Camilla rarely raised her voice, but tonight her words held steel. Her dark hair fell loose around her shoulders, her dress still smelling faintly of smoke. She looked delicate, but her eyes burned with conviction.
"You can't carry this alone, Isa," Camilla pressed, her voice quieter now but no less resolute. "The Raccis struck because they know your temper. They know you'll answer fire with fire. That's their trap. They want you to burn Palermo for them."
Isabella's jaw tightened. "And what would you have me do? Sit here? Wait? Beg for scraps like those cowards who hide behind neutrality?"
The word dropped like a blade between them.
Neutrality. Everyone knew who she meant.
From the corner of the hall, Damian D'Amato's chuckle cut through the air like a knife. He had been lounging on a leather chair, silent until now, a glass of whiskey in his hand. His smirk widened as he clapped once, slow and deliberate.
"Spoken like a true Wilson," Damian drawled, rising to his feet with effortless grace. "Fire and pride, even when the ashes choke you."
Marcus bristled immediately. "You've overstayed your welcome, Damian."
"On the contrary," Damian said smoothly, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "I've only just arrived. And if your cousin is wise, she'll listen. Because tonight proved something the Raccis can reach anywhere."
Isabella's glare pinned him. "Say what you mean, D'Amato."
He smiled thinly, his tone dropping, almost conspiratorial. "You're strong. But strength alone doesn't win wars. Strategy does. And right now, you're not the only one under scrutiny. Everyone is watching. Every move you make ripples through Palermo. And if you break too loudly, you'll make enemies you don't even see."
The words stung, not because they were cruel, but because they were true. Isabella hated him for it.
Before she could reply, the last voice in the room finally stirred.
Alistair had been there the entire time. Leaning against the marble pillar, half-hidden in the dim light, silent as a shadow. His presence had been felt more than seen like a current in the air.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, steady, and impossible to ignore.
"He's right."
Every head turned.
Isabella froze, her eyes narrowing. "Excuse me?"
Alistair stepped forward slowly, the weight of his composure filling the hall. He moved without rush, each step deliberate, his gaze fixed on her like a blade honed to perfection.
"The Raccis aren't just testing you," Alistair said. "They're testing Palermo. They want to see who bends, who panics first, and who lashes out."
His words were calm, but each one struck like a hammer.
"They burned ships to bait you," he continued. "The real strike hasn't happened yet. And if you keep letting rage choose your answers, you'll walk straight into their hands."
Marcus stiffened. "Careful, Alistair."
But Isabella didn't look at Marcus. Her entire focus was on Alistair, on the maddening steadiness in his voice, the infuriating calm in his eyes.
"Predictable," he had called her.
The insult gnawed at her, because beneath the fury was the echo of truth.