The morning air smelled of rain. Isabella stood at the café counter, wiping down mugs with more force than necessary. Her nerves hadn't settled since the night before, the man in the alley, the shadows on her walk home, the way her skin crawled with the sense of being watched.
"Bella, slow down." Marta caught her wrist, frowning. "You're going to crack that glass."
"I didn't sleep much," Isabella admitted, forcing a laugh. "Bad dreams."
But it wasn't a dream. She could still hear the man's voice in her head: She's leaving now.
The bell above the café door jingled. Isabella froze.
Two men in dark suits entered, their presence swallowing the small space. They weren't customers, everything about them screamed danger. One was tall with a scar slicing across his cheek; the other wore leather gloves despite the warm weather. Their eyes found her instantly.
"Isabella Cruz?" the scarred one asked.
Her heart stuttered. Marta moved closer, protective, but the man's gaze flicked to her, sharp enough to slice through bone.
"Don't," he warned quietly. "This isn't for you."
Isabella forced her voice to work. "Yes?"
"You've been invited," the gloved man said. He pulled a thick ivory envelope from his jacket and set it on the counter. The paper was embossed with a crest, two lions entwined around a crown, marked in blood-red wax.
Isabella didn't touch it. "I… think you have the wrong person."
The scarred man's lips twitched into something resembling a smile. "No mistake. Our Don doesn't get people's names wrong."
Don. The word felt heavy, final. She didn't need to ask who they meant.
"I'm not interested," Isabella said quickly.
The man leaned closer, his breath cold against her cheek. "This isn't an invitation you can refuse. If you don't come, others will pay the price. Your mother, for example. A shame if her condition were to… worsen."
Her blood turned to ice.
Marta's hand squeezed hers under the counter, but neither of them dared speak.
The man straightened, adjusting his cufflinks. "Tonight. Eight o'clock. A car will be waiting outside your building. Be ready."
And just like that, they turned and walked out, leaving the café in suffocating silence.
Isabella stared at the envelope, her hands trembling. She wanted to burn it, to throw it into the nearest trash can and pretend none of this was happening. But her mother's fragile face flashed in her mind, and she knew she had no choice.
That evening, the black car idled at the curb like a predator waiting for its prey. Isabella stood frozen in her apartment doorway, dressed in the only elegant thing she owned a simple navy dress Marta had insisted on lending her.
"You don't have to do this," Marta whispered, gripping her shoulders.
Isabella tried to smile, though her lips shook. "If I don't, Mama…" She couldn't finish the thought.
Marta hugged her tightly. "Then promise me you'll come back."
Isabella didn't answer. She walked down the steps and into the waiting car.
Inside, leather seats and silence. The men from the café sat on either side of her like stone statues. The city blurred past the tinted windows as the car carried her deeper into the unknown.
Her pulse hammered louder with every turn.
Finally, the car slowed, pulling up before iron gates taller than any building she'd ever seen. Beyond them sprawled a mansion bathed in golden light, its windows glowing like eyes watching her arrival.
The gates opened soundlessly. The car rolled forward.
As the vehicle stopped, the door opened, and a tall figure stood waiting at the top of the stone steps. Broad shoulders, tailored suit, eyes like steel even from a distance.
Dominic Valenti. The Don.
Her breath caught, fear and something darker twisting inside her.
He watched her step out of the car as if he'd been waiting his whole life for this moment.
"Welcome, Isabella," Dominic said, his voice low, dangerous, and devastatingly calm. "I've been expecting you."