Darkness pulled back like a slow tide.
Alex blinked.
At first, the world was a blur of muted greys and warm shadows bleeding together. The air was cool, dry, faintly scented with incense and something bitter… gun oil, maybe.
He tried to sit up, but his limbs felt like wet sandbags. A mild ache throbbed in his neck where the dart had struck.
As his vision cleared, he noticed his surroundings more clearly: tall, luxurious red curtains, antique gold accents, and dim lighting that made the room feel almost eerie. In front of him was a high-backed leather chair, beautifully designed, and in it was her.
Isabella.
She didn't speak at first.
She sat like a statue of herself, back straight, legs crossed, the tip of one stiletto tapping a slow rhythm into the marble. Her suit was deep navy, lined with red—the unmistakable palette of the De Luca family.
