Somewhere out there, someone knows my name, my address, my routines. Someone wanted to scare me into silence.
They should’ve known better.
Fear only sharpens me.
Still, when the phone buzzes again—another unknown number—I nearly drop it.
Themessage reads:
Stop digging, Isabella. The Don doesn’t forgive curiosity.
The Don.
I’ve heard that title whispered in stories, in police briefings, in late-night bar gossip between reporters who drink too much.
But this is the first time it’s been aimed at me.
I stare at the message, my reflection ghosting back in the glass. The Don. Dante Moretti.
The man whose name controls half the city.
I should delete it. Forward it to the police. Tell someone.
Instead, I save it. Because that’s what I do—collect evidence, even when it terrifies me.
And as I crawl into bed, fully clothed, my last thought before sleep finally drags me under is this:
If Dante Moretti wanted me dead, I’d already be gone.
So why am I still breathing?
Chapter 4
Obsession is a slow disease.
You never notice the infection until it’s already in your blood.
It started simple—due diligence.
A journalist sniffing around my name, my businesses, my family. I’ve seen it before. It never lasts long.
But Isabella DeLaurentis wasn’t like the others.
She didn’t scare easily. She didn’t flinch when men twice her size tried to block her from stories that could ruin them.
And every time I read one of her articles, I caught something underneath the facts—anger, yes, but also honor.
A strange thing to find in a city that sold its soul a century ago.
So I told myself I was being cautious when I had Lorenzo run a background check.
Responsible when I asked Nicole to pull her security footage from the lobby of her office building.
And maybe I was curious when I pulled her file onto my own screen late at night—just to look at the woman who dared to put my name near her truth.
Now her face lives behind my eyelids.
Brown eyes that see too much. A mouth that looks like it was made for words and sins in equal measure.
