I immediately crouched down, placing both hands on Sofia's small shoulders, framing her face. I forced my expression to remain calm, gentle. "Go with Marco, sweetheart," I said, nodding toward the armed driver already opening the back door. "He'll take you home, and I'll be right behind you, okay?"
She blinked at me, her brow furrowed with confusion. "But..."
"Go," I said softly, brushing her hair back from her face. "I promise I'll see you soon. Be good for Marco."
She nodded, reluctant and still confused, but compliant, a trait I'd painstakingly instilled. I watched, my jaw tight, as Marco settled her into the car and closed the door with a precisethud. I didn't turn away until the black sedan pulled cleanly into traffic, dissolving into the city.
Only then did I turn to Alessandro, shedding the father instantly and becoming the Don.
He didn't waste time with a preamble. "It was her brother, Danny," he said flatly, his voice too quiet for the public space. "Rafe traced the email that leaked the bank file to the paper. It originated from his personal account."
The words hit like a physical gunshot. For a moment, I couldn't move, the world stuttering to a halt around the harsh reality of that name.
Then everything inside me snapped taut. My fists clenched so hard my knuckles cracked audibly in the chilled air. Betrayal. It was the oldest wound in my world, and it was fresh again.
"No," I ground out, my voice low, dangerous, a growl pulled from the deepest part of my chest. "Not Isabella." The fury wasn't toward her yet, but toward the man who dared use her proximity to me.
"I know," Alessandro said, his tone a steady anchor. "Rafe cross-checked the metadata. The timestamp matches when she was inside your penthouse, deep asleep. She didn't have access to her account. It wasn't her hand on the keyboard." He hesitated, his gaze flicking toward the road where Sofia's car had vanished. "Her brother's mixed up with the Russians, been using the Mayor's office to pull strings for them. The article was meant to hurtyou, Dante. It was his smokescreen to cover his tracks."
My blood roared in my ears. I yanked my phone out of my coat pocket, heart pounding a violent, irregular rhythm. My thumb flew over the security updates.
8:32 AM — Ms. DeLaurentis left the penthouse.
8:47 AM — Said she was meeting you at the school.
I was fifteen miles away. She had lied to the men I paid to protect her. The timeline was impossible. The audacity was breathtaking.
And then, at the bottom of the feed, was the message—one I hadn't seen come through until now.
Bella:
I'm sorry.
I stared at the two words.I'm sorry.Sorry for what? For her brother's actions? For her involvement? Or simply for walking out? Did she know what he was doing? The terrifying uncertainty that she might be fundamentally disloyal, that she might have been laughing at my control, ignited a cold, hard knot of rage in my chest.
"She left," I repeated, the words scraping out of me. "She left the house. She lied to the guards."
The fury started low—just a tremor—and then spread until I was trembling.
"Rafe," I barked, turning to the guard. "Take a team. Lock down the penthouse. Find out which guards let her walk out and put them in the small room. No one goes in or out."
Alessandro stepped forward. "I'm going with you."
"I'm driving. You are not thinking straight right now. You're going to hit a wall or a witness. Get in the car, Dante."
The command was so rare, so absolute, I almost hit him. But the rationality in his eyes held me back. I was too volatile. I nodded once, savagely.
"Her apartment," I ground out, walking to the passenger door.
Alessandro didn't argue. He opened the driver's door, got in, and started the engine. The car pulled away from the curb with a smooth, professional acceleration.
I sat in the passenger seat, silent, staring ahead. I didn't reach for my phone to make calls; I was too consumed. I watched the world rush by—the bright sun on the buildings, the oblivious faces of the people on the sidewalk. All of them were safe, while the woman I was foolishly starting to trust had abandoned the only protection she had.
I trusted her.
The memory of her moaning against my mouth hours earlier, tasting like blueberries and surrender, was a cruel, hot flicker of pain. I realized the only time I felt safe was when she was locked inside my walls, under my eye. Now the walls were breached, the lock broken, and she had done it herself.
The door to her old apartment was closed, but when I hit the handle, it opened instantly.
