Page 47 of Marriage of Revenge

"What is it?" The words come out like ice.

"The brakes. They've been compromised." Franco hesitates, reading the murder in my eyes, but continues when I motion him on. "One of the mechanics has vanished." Pain and fury war in his voice. Because if they got to one of our men, if they killed him, blood will answer blood. That's our code. We protect our own.

It was predictable, really. They'd try to infiltrate us just like we did them.

"Is there time for repairs?" I keep my voice steady, controlled. A leader showing weakness is a leader about to die.

"No."

"Then we go with the motorcycle."

"But the speed, especially on that route—"

"I've got it under control." My muscles coil tight, ready for what's coming. "And if they've set traps on that road, a bike might be more maneuverable. The agreement was a race down the 'Strada della Morte'. They'll get exactly what they asked for."

And maybe Isabella will get to watch me survive. Again.

"Are you really sure about the motorcycle, Boss? That road's a fucking death trap." Franco's question carries the weight of years of loyalty.

Yeah, the bike's exposed. One wrong move and I'm painting the cliff with my brains. But it's also faster, more agile. The kind of edge that means the difference between winning and dying. "It's the way to win," I tell him, my tone leaving no room for argument.

The crowd swarms behind the start line like vultures at a feast. Money changes hands, whispers and shouts mixing in the air. Amateur betters pace like caged animals while the real players watch from their private spots, calculating odds with cold eyes. Five cars and my lone bike - the odds aren't in my favor. Good. I work better that way.

The road unfolds ahead like a snake ready to strike: narrow, treacherous, still slick from morning rain. One mistake and you're meeting the rocks at the bottom. They don't call it the Strada della Morte for nothing.

My gaze sweeps the crowd, tactical assessment turning hungry the moment I spot her. Isabella. She's moving toward the front, Naomi tucked against her side like she's trying to shield her friend from all this shit. When her eyes meet mine, something electric sparks in the air between us.

The urge to show off - to flex, to stride over there and claim her mouth in front of everyone - hits hard. Fucking ridiculous.

But then Henrik's strutting toward her like he owns the place, leaning in for a kiss, and suddenly throwing him off the cliff seems like a perfectly reasonable response.

His yelp of pain cuts through the crowd noise. "The bitch bit me!"

Satisfaction burns through me hot as whiskey. That's my girl. My lips curve into a half-grin - until Henrik raises his hand to her and every killer instinct I've got roars to life.

My hand clamps around Henrik's wrist before it can connect, twisting until I feel tendons strain. "What did I tell you before?"My voice drops to that place that makes smarter men run. "Touch her and you're going to regret it."

The polished businessman act shatters. Rage twists his features ugly as the truth he's hiding. "Think you can keep her from me? Just wait. I'll have her in every way, while you'll fade away like some bad dream. She'll bear my kids, and every single scar I leave on her?" His lips curl into something sick. "It'll be a reminder that I bested you."

"You haven't. And you won't." I shove him hard enough to make him stumble, the promise of violence clear in every line of my body.

When Isabella's eyes find mine, everything else blurs like smoke. That look – it’s different, filled with an agony I don’t understand. It’s not like she wants Henrik, does she? Or does she play the same act with all of us?

It doesn’t matter.

It shouldn’t matter.

I remind myself—she's just a chip in this game. Just another piece to move across the board. And I'm all too familiar with how ruthless she can turn, just like her father.

That damn price I paid proves it.

She leans in, her lips barely grazing my ear, honeysuckle and danger mixing in my lungs. "Rock - Villa."

No second thoughts. I swing onto my motorcycle, mind already racing through possibilities. Rocks from Villa Maria? A boulder planted to force a crash? What's her play here? What trap is she trying to warn me about?

"Everybody in place!" The command cuts through the morning air like gunfire.

My heart pounds but my hands are steady on the grips. Years of outrunning death have taught me when to trust my instincts.

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