Otilla did not act immediately.
That was the most dangerous part.
She waited until Xavier left.
Waited until the street returned to its ordinary rhythm.
Until Isabella resumed walking alone again.
Until relief softened into routine.
Otilla understood timing better than anyone.
Power wasn't loud.
It was patient.
---
The order this time did not involve speed.
No cars.
No crude violence.
This one required precision.
Reputation. Isolation. Fear that crept slowly and stayed.
She sat across from a man in a quiet café—an accountant by profession, a fixer by habit. No names were spoken. No paper exchanged.
"Make her unsafe," Otilla said calmly, stirring her drink. "But alive."
The man nodded. He understood exactly what that meant.
---
It began subtly.
Health inspectors arrived at the pastry shop—unexpected, thorough, relentless.
Minor infractions became major concerns.
Permits delayed.
Suppliers suddenly unavailable.
Customers slowed.
Whispers followed.
"Did you hear…?"
"Something's not right with that place."
Lucia noticed first.
"They're watching us," she whispered one evening.
Marcello frowned. "We've done nothing wrong."
That was the point.
---
Then came the letters.
Anonymous. Typed. Slipped under the door.
You should be careful.
Accidents happen to people who don't know their place.
Isabella's hands shook as she read them.
Andrea wanted to tear them up.
Marcello burned one in the sink.
But fear doesn't burn away so easily.
---
The final message arrived three days later.
This one wasn't anonymous.
It came from a blocked number.
You are exhausting his protection.
Next time, I won't miss anything.
Isabella sat down hard on her bed.
Her phone slipped from her fingers.
This wasn't random.
This was her.
Otilla.
---
At evening,
Xavier was thousands of miles away when Isabella finally called him.
Her voice was steady.
Too steady.
"She's doing it again," Isabella said.
Xavier closed his eyes.
"How far has it gone?"
"Far enough," she replied. "But I'm not running."
There was a pause.
Then his voice—low, controlled, dangerous.
"Good," he said. "Because neither am I."
---
Across the city, Otilla stood on her balcony, watching lights flicker on below.
She felt no guilt.
Only certainty.
Love made people visible.
Visibility made them weak.
And weakness was something she knew exactly how to exploit.
"This time," she whispered, "I won't touch him."
Her smile was slow.
"I'll let him watch."
And far away, Xavier Hernandez prepared himself—not just for duty, not just for war—
But for the moment when restraint would no longer be an option.
Because Otilla D'Este had struck again.
And this time, she had made it personal.