Not all shadows belonged to enemies. Some were commanded by Dante himself—loyal men who knew how to stalk the night without leaving a trace. Isabella thought she was clever, but every step she took, every whisper she uttered, was being swallowed by shadows loyal only to him.
Isabella had always believed she could glide through life unseen, untouchable, bending the rules until the world folded neatly into her favor. Men wanted her, women envied her, and power always seemed within reach. But lately… eyes followed her.
Everywhere she went—her favorite boutique, the glittering restaurants where she entertained acquaintances, even the quiet sanctuaries of her morning jogs—she felt it. A shadow, deliberate and sharp, dogging her heels.
Dante's men.
At first she'd thought it paranoia, the cruel whisper of her conscience reminding her of all the lies she'd spun. But when she caught a reflection of a familiar face in the mirrored walls of Bellini's Casino, she knew it wasn't her imagination. Dante had set his dogs loose.
And she hated it.
Isabella stood before her vanity that evening, brushing dark curls until they gleamed like spilled ink. Her gown, silk the color of midnight, clung to her curves with sinful promise. Her lips—blood red. She admired herself and smiled, a smile that was poison and honey in equal measure.
"They think they can cage me," she whispered, tilting her head at her reflection. "Let them try."
Behind her, Claire shifted uncomfortably in the chair. The once-bright girl, Ava's ex-friend, looked pale in the lamplight, her nervous fingers knotting the hem of her skirt. She hated being in Isabella's apartment—every corner smelled of expensive perfume and quiet malice.
"Are you sure about this?" Claire asked finally, her voice hesitant. "Dante's men… they don't look away. If they catch us—"
Isabella laughed softly, a sound like glass breaking. "Catch us? Claire, darling, they are men, not gods. And men are easily distracted."
Her smile widened, cruel. "Besides, you owe me. If you hadn't botched the restaurant setup, Ava would already be ruined. She'd be broken in pieces, and I would be sipping champagne over her grave. Instead, she's still clinging to Dante like some pathetic little vine. So now, you'll listen to me. And you'll obey."
Claire swallowed. Shame curled in her gut—shame and fury. Every time Isabella mentioned Ava's name, the wound opened wider. She remembered Ava's betrayal, how she'd been cast aside, forgotten, while Ava became the perfect golden girl again. Claire had chosen Ethan once, thinking she'd found love. Instead, she was left humiliated, used.
So yes. She hated Ava. Hated her enough to keep sitting there, despite Isabella's venom.
"What do you want me to do?" Claire asked quietly.
Isabella's smile turned predatory. She leaned close, her perfume heady and suffocating. "You're going to help me set a fire. A beautiful, blazing distraction. And while Dante's dogs chase after smoke, we'll carve out our own path."
The evening played out like a performance. Isabella was the star, draped in diamonds, descending into Bellini's Casino like royalty. The chandeliers scattered light across her figure, drawing gazes as if the world itself bent to her gravity. Claire followed half a step behind, her role carefully rehearsed: the shadow, the assistant, the unimportant friend.
But the moment Isabella stepped inside, she felt them. Two men at the bar. One leaning against a marble pillar. Another near the gaming tables. Dante's men, dressed as ordinary patrons, but too alert, too sharp. Their gazes brushed her like knives.
She smirked. "Good evening, gentlemen," she murmured under her breath, knowing they couldn't hear but relishing the performance.
Antonio Bellini himself greeted her with a kiss to her gloved hand. The casino owner's grin was wolfish, his eyes greedy. Isabella knew his reputation—half ally, half viper—but tonight, he was useful. She clung to his arm, laughing at his every word, letting Dante's men watch her flirt with another powerful man.
"Isabella," Bellini purred, "you shine brighter than my casino tonight."
"Careful, Antonio," she replied silkily. "Flattery might make me believe you."
Her laughter rang through the hall, but beneath it beat the rhythm of her mind—calculated, measured. Every laugh, every tilt of her head was designed to draw the eyes of Dante's men. To make them wonder. To make them report back: She's plotting with Bellini. She's dangerous.
Let them chase ghosts.
Outside, one of Dante's men, Marco, adjusted his earpiece. His voice was low, grave. "She's making herself visible tonight. Bellini's got her on his arm. This could mean something."
Another, Lucian, scoffed. "It's Isabella. She thrives on attention. Doesn't mean she's plotting."
Marco shook his head. "With her, everything means something."
Later that night, Isabella slipped out onto the rooftop terrace of the casino. The city sprawled beneath her, lights flickering like dying stars. Claire stood at her side, shivering in the night air.
"They're still watching," Claire whispered, eyes darting toward the doorway where a suited man pretended to check his phone.
"Good," Isabella hissed. She leaned against the railing, her figure poised like a queen surveying her kingdom. "Let them watch. The more they look here, the less they'll see elsewhere."
Claire frowned. "Elsewhere?"
Isabella's lips curved. "While they chase me, darling, you'll be busy weaving Ava's downfall. We'll plant the seeds. Whispers in the firm, rumors about her loyalty, maybe even staged an affair with a client. Dante won't protect her forever if she starts costing him money."
Claire's chest tightened. The thought of destroying Ava should have thrilled her. But under Isabella's cold gaze, it felt more like marching into a battlefield she might not leave alive.
Across the terrace, Marco caught a glimpse of Isabella's smile in the moonlight. It wasn't the smile of a woman enjoying herself. It was sharper, colder.
He turned to Lucian. "She's plotting. I can feel it."
Lucian didn't argue this time. "We'll report to Dante. He'll want to know."
Back inside her apartment hours later, Isabella peeled off her gloves slowly, savoring the silence. Claire hovered by the door, exhausted, her nerves frayed.
"You played them well tonight," Claire said.
"Of course I did," Isabella replied, her tone dripping with arrogance. "Dante's men think they've cornered me, but I'm ten steps ahead. And soon… Ava will wish she never crossed my path."
Claire hesitated. "And if Dante finds out?"
Isabella turned sharply, her eyes burning with hatred. "Then Dante will learn what it means to underestimate me."
For a long moment, silence filled the room. Only the ticking of the clock broke it. Claire realized, with a sinking feeling, that Isabella wasn't just scheming out of jealousy. She was obsessed. Consumed.
And Ava was standing directly in the path of a storm no one could control.
"Boss," one of Dante's men murmured into the phone, his voice low but sharp. "She's meeting someone… and it's not who we expected." A pause. Then the name that made Dante's jaw tighten: