Morning sunlight never looked peaceful in Palermo it always carried a strange unease, as though the city was pretending too hard. The Wilson estate, wrapped in its marble and wealth, was no exception. Even the vines in the garden seemed to stand too still, waiting for something to break.
Isabella sat on the stone bench near the fountain, her black hair braided loosely over one shoulder. The faint trickle of water was the only sound in the still air. She hadn't slept since the docks burned. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the reflection of fire on the sea and Alistair's unreadable eyes in the background.
Her father's men had been moving nonstop since then checking warehouses, doubling patrols, calling in favors. But none of it felt like enough. The Raccis had struck, yes, but this wasn't just a message anymore. It was a test. And everyone knew what came after tests.
War.
"Staring at the water won't make it change color," Camilla's voice came from behind her soft, teasing, but edged with concern. The younger woman carried two cups of espresso, her hair tied back with a silk ribbon that caught the light. "You've been out here for hours."
Isabella accepted the cup with a tired half-smile. "Better than listening to Marcus yell at the guards again."
"Marcus yelling means the house is still standing," Camilla said, sitting beside her. "You, on the other hand, look like you're about to burn it down yourself."
"I might," Isabella muttered. "If it keeps everyone focused."
Camilla laughed quietly, though her gaze was watchful. "You mean if it keeps you distracted."
Isabella didn't answer. She didn't need to. Camilla already knew the truth—Isabella carried too much anger to sit still, but too much weight to strike blindly again. Her father had always said anger was useful, but never twice in the same war.
For a long while, neither spoke. The fountain bubbled softly between them, the air heavy with the scent of lemons from the orchard below.
Then Camilla asked, "Have you spoken to him since that night?"
"Which 'him'?" Isabella asked dryly.
Camilla gave her a pointed look. "The one who doesn't waste words. The one who stood there and called you predictable."
Isabella exhaled through her nose. "Alistair D'Amato is a vulture who likes the view from above. He doesn't speak he calculates."
"Mm," Camilla hummed, hiding her smile behind her cup. "And yet you remember every word he said."
Before Isabella could reply, a shadow crossed the courtyard. Marcus stepped into view, his face grim.
"You should both come inside," he said. "We have visitors."
The main hall of the Wilson estate was never silent, but today it was quieter than usual a kind of watchful calm before the inevitable storm. Marcus led them through the corridor, his steps heavy against the marble floor.
At the far end of the hall stood Alistair D'Amato and Damian, their dark suits immaculate, their expressions carved in control. Behind them, two D'Amato men lingered near the doorway bodyguards, though neither moved.
Camilla's gaze flicked between them and whispered, "Well… this isn't ominous at all."
Damian smirked. "We try to make an impression."
Alistair's eyes, however, didn't move from Isabella. He didn't bow, didn't greet he simply watched her approach as if measuring her again, the same way he had that night. Isabella felt her temper stir before she even opened her mouth.
"You came to see if the Wilsons are still breathing?" she asked coolly.
"On the contrary," Alistair said. "I came to make sure Palermo still is."
Marcus folded his arms. "If this is another D'Amato sermon about restraint "
"It isn't," Alistair interrupted evenly. "It's a warning."
He stepped closer, the quiet click of his shoes echoing. "Two days ago, one of our northern shipments was intercepted. Not destroyed. Not robbed. Just… stopped. No explanation. No trace. Whoever did it knew our schedule and yours."
Isabella's brow furrowed. "You're saying the Raccis hit you, too?"
"I'm saying someone is using the Raccis as a mask," Alistair replied. "And if they have men inside your docks and ours, this isn't just about territory anymore. Someone's trying to control Palermo from the shadows."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Damian leaned lazily against the banister, breaking it with a low chuckle. "And here I thought this visit was going to be boring."
Camilla shot him a glare. "You think everything's a game."
"Everything is a game," Damian said, his tone playful but his eyes sharp. "The trick is knowing who's holding the cards."
Isabella crossed her arms. "Then tell me, Damian who do you think is holding them?"
He smiled faintly. "If I knew, I wouldn't be here."
It was Alistair who broke the moment. "We believe the next strike will come through the vineyards."
Marcus frowned. "The south vineyards?"
"The ones your family owns in partnership with the Raccis," Alistair clarified. "You've both used them as neutral ground since the truce. It's the perfect place to draw blood without taking blame."
Camilla's hand flew to her mouth. "That vineyard supplies half of Palermo's elite."
"Exactly," Alistair said. "When the vines burn, everyone will bleed."
The words hung like smoke in the air.
For a moment, Isabella said nothing. Then she stepped forward, eyes locked on Alistair's. "And you expect me to believe this isn't another test? That you didn't stage this to force my hand?"
Alistair didn't flinch. "If I wanted to test you, Isabella, I'd do it where no one could hear you scream."
Camilla's breath caught, Marcus tensed, Damian's grin widened but Isabella only smiled, a dangerous, calm curve of her lips.
"Then maybe," she said, voice like velvet over glass, "we should both stop pretending to be watching from the sidelines."
By nightfall, Palermo was restless again. The sea wind carried whispers about the docks, the Wilsons, and now the D'Amatos seen crossing their gates. Every alliance was a rumor, every silence a threat.
Isabella stood on the balcony of her study, looking down at the city. In the distance, lights flickered across the hills, where the vineyards stretched under the moon. She could almost smell the earth, the ripening grapes the same vines her family had planted generations ago, now tainted by politics and blood.
Behind her, a soft knock sounded.
"Enter," she said without turning.
Alistair stepped in quietly, his presence filling the room before his voice did. "You're planning to go tonight."
It wasn't a question.
Isabella's reflection in the glass met his gaze. "If someone means to torch my family's land, I won't wait for morning."
He moved closer, slow, deliberate. "Then at least don't go alone."
She turned then, eyes flashing. "You think I need protection?"
"I think," he said evenly, "you need someone who doesn't want to bury you."
The words disarmed her for a fraction of a second. Alistair rarely showed emotion his voice was always steel wrapped in velvet but now, there was something beneath the calm. Something raw.
"Don't mistake observation for concern," she warned.
"I don't," he said quietly. "Concern is personal. This is strategic."
"Of course," she replied, though her voice betrayed a flicker of something else.
The tension between them settled like a loaded gun. He stepped closer too close but didn't touch her. The scent of smoke and leather lingered faintly from his coat. When he finally spoke, it was low enough that only she could hear.
"Don't let them see you burn, Isabella. Not yet."
Then he left.
Isabella stood alone for a long time, her pulse steady but her thoughts spiraling. She didn't know whether to hate him for his arrogance or thank him for his clarity. But as the moonlight glinted off the vineyards in the distance, she made her choice.
She would go. Tonight.
If the Raccis or whoever hid behind them wanted to play with fire, they would learn that she didn't burn quietly.