Isabella's POV

Rafeal stood back on his feet. He looked past the Dons to the guards gathered before the open doorway. “Lock the perimeter. Let no one in or out, and search every room, every vent, and every corner of the resort for the intruder.”

“Your room too,” a guard asked cautiously, partly bowing his head after the question.

Rafeale's eyes hooded for a brief thought. Then he shook his head. “Yeah. Search that too. But make sure to put it back in order.” He yelled.

Instantly, all of the guards were running around to carry out his orders.

Guards swarmed everywhere. I dragged myself up the wall, calming my breath with a hand on my chest. I stared at the window to see the guards, dressed in their crisp, unformed Mafia-style suits and wielding their rifles, swarming the gates, moving with military grade efficiency. Radios crackled, voices urgent and tense as they passed information about. Every entrance and exit was locked down, with guards making formations around them. No one could leave. No one could enter. The world outside might as well have stopped existing.

In less than an hour, the whole resort had become more than the fortress it previously was. It became a prison. And I was trapped, trapped in this prison in every sense of the word.

The Dons had all moved to the hallway now, not without most gifting me deadly stares or chilling smiles. Don Fabrizio had even swiped his hand on his neck, in the classic I-will-kill-you threat.

I had no doubt, without the restraint of Rafaele’s order, he would gladly do it. I had heard tales of his efficiency in that task. The bastard was a born torturer. A master in the art.

Well, I just hoped I escaped this in one piece, though I very well know this wasn't going to end for me even if I found the killer. Don Matteo had said Rafeale’s face shouldn't be seen for some strange reasons I still don't know, and that was another excuse for them to tie me to their confraternity, or at worst, seek my neck. I have seen his face and seen more. Seen those well-sculpted abs and touched the perfect ridges of muscles on his chest. Seen the monstrous length between his long, powerful legs, touched it, felt it, and been fucked by it.

The upper ends of my thighs itched, my sex growing moist. I rubbed my legs together to keep back the sting. Focus. Concentrate, Isabella. Your life is at stake now. You don't have time to fantasize about the same man who promises to kill you in a week.

I shook the wild erotic thoughts from my head. But when my eyes swept up and met his studying gaze, I almost collapsed against the wall. Not from fright, but something primal, that I just couldn't name, something that made my sex feel like it was drenched in water, and I almost punched a moan out of my lungs.

Eyes still cold and calculating, swept me firmly. “You might want to begin your investigation now, missus. Don't forget you have just seven days.”

I got a grip of myself, straightening up from the wall. “If I find the killer after seven days, as you requested, what will happen to me afterwards? Will I be released?”

His upper lip stretched upward for another chilling smile. “When you did find the killer, then we would discuss that.” He paused. “But I’ll encourage you to abandon the fantasy of escaping from here or that you once had a life before now,” he said, and he walked out, joining the others in the hallway.

I dragged my eyes from exploring the tensed muscle of his back as he walked, and I dragged them to the scene. I swallowed hard. I had one week. One week to find the killer, so I can get enough lease of life to be able to find a solution to the mess I have thrown myself into.

I moved into Don Vincenzo’s suite. My eyes scanned the room once more, while I strolled through, repeating the phrase “one week” in my head, my chest heaving in sync with the words.

I checked the garrote marks, the tipped table, and the scuffed window. I could tell that something felt wrong, felt incomplete. The killer left the note to taunt Rafeale, not Vincenzo. That much was obvious. And that note was probably the big piece of this puzzle.

What did Rafeale mean to the killer? What was that note trying to say when it says the Confraternity would bleed? Would there be more deaths? Was Vincenzo's death going to be the first of many?

A car engine rumbled violently from outside, cutting through my thoughts. I walked to the window, peering down at the courtyard.

A car honked before the gates, obscured by the trees and the massiveness of the gates.

A guard pulled up to Rafael. “Don Lorenzo Marino is here. Should we let him in?” the guard asked.

“Shouldn't he have been here before now. Why is he just coming now?” Rafeal grunted, sounding disgruntled.

“You know how he is,” Don Matteo chipped in cautiously, then directed to the guards. “Let Lorenzo in, but if he comes with anyone, a girlfriend or another outsider, then keep them out.” He said.

“Yes, Don Matteo.” The guards said and hurried away, boots stomping the tiles.

“Lorenzo,” I repeated in my head, muttering the name half aloud, as my mind bugged on the questions swirling through me. Don Matteo Russo just called Lorenzo by his name, like he was an equal, and not like he was the boss.

The whole gang had moved to the courtyard, just as the guards pulled the gate apart and a sleek black Lamborghini rolled through—the kind of car that screamed wealth and power without apology.

The guards around rushed to form a path by the car, bowing their heads.

The doors opened, and a tall man stepped out—well-tailored suit, gold cufflinks, confidence as strong as his perfume. Lorenzo Marino. His jet black hair was slicked back, with a little gray at the temples.

Now, I finally see his face after years of hunting around for it. Yet, right now, that curiosity paled to the one that was consuming me right now. The one that screamed at me from the inside: Who was this Rafaele? And what was he? Why do the lesser dons fear him, and everyone hearken to his orders as if he were the boos?

“Lorenzo,” the other Dons called. The name carried across the courtyard. From the window, I could see the other dons as they approached him, more of courtesy than fear, which was unlike how they treated Rafeale. They treated Rafeale with more fear than courtesy.

The strangest thing happened when they didn't bow to Lorenzo. But he was supposed to be the Don of Dons. The custom was for them to bow to him.

Instead, they greeted him like an equal—solid handshakes, murmured words, mutual acknowledgement. But isn't Lorenzo supposed to be the man rumored to be the most powerful in the confraternity? The boss of bosses. The biggest Mafia boss in the world.

And then Rafeale stepped outside.

He didn’t say a word, but the silence that fell around the courtyard felt like the world holding its breath. The Dons stepped aside instantly, heads bowed. Lorenzo’s eyes met Rafeale’s. I expected a confrontation or for Rafeale to bow. Instead, something far more shocking happened. Lorenzo bowed.

Low. Deep. Respectful. Submissive. As though the air around Rafeale demanded obedience without needing to ask.

My breath caught in my chest, then.

Just who the hell are you, Rafeale? Who are you? The question burned like fire behind my ribs.

If Lorenzo Marino—Don of Dons—bowed to him, then Rafeale was something much bigger. More dangerous. More powerful.

A small group of guards ran fast to join the scene. Rafeale looked past Lorenzo and the other dons at them. “What have you found out?” He demanded, cold as always.

One of the guards cleared his throat hard before he spoke. “We have searched the whole of the resort, and found nothing, Don of Dons. Nor did we find a trace of anyone leaving the resort since we arrived. There is no one else in the resort, and no one else has come and left, except the Dons and us, guards.”

“Then how do you explain the killer. How did he get in? How did he leave?” Rafeale bellowed.

I had a theory about that, though I didn't yell it out to him. There was only one explanation for why that is. The killer is one of them. One of the Dons or one of the guards. And my best, it had to be one of the Dons. One of the bastards was killing the other bastards, and I had just seven days to find the bastard. I heaved a sigh, shrugging my shoulders. “So help me God,” I muttered to myself aloud.