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My feet carry me to Enzo’s office without my consent. I creak the door open and find his unattended computer, the screen still lit. He must’ve checked something before he left with Marco.
After half an hour of digging through the email accounts Mama listed and trying each password she gave me, I finally land on the right one. He never changed them, arrogant enough to think no one would ever investigate.
Numbers and names flood the screen, offering up financial trails that weave through cities and records of families ruined by Vincent’s greed. Bile rises in my throat with every page.
He wasn’t just corrupt. He destroyed people.
A file marked X snags my attention.
I open it and discover scanned documents for new identities, a map to an auto shop on the city’s outskirts, and a letter from my father sent three days ago. My hands pause over the keyboard. He’s been planning while we suffer…while my mother wasted away?
I need air.
Outside, the grounds stretch green and endless, too alive for the death-gray feeling inside.
My feet move without direction until the sound of fists meeting flesh stops me cold. Curiosity pulls me in that direction.
Inside, I discover a dojo-like space with mats spread wide. Punching bags swing from chains, and racks lined with weapons gleam under fluorescent lights. Izzy is at the center, moving like she was born for this.
She strikes her sparring partner with brutal precision, every blow a blend of art and threat, beauty and violence merged in a way I’ve never seen before. My eyes widen. Violence has always disgusted me, often causing me to flinch or glance away. But her fluid, fierce, unapologetic motions hypnotize me.
Izzy feels my gaze on her and spins. “Well, well. Porcelain doll watching the wolves.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Just curious.”
“Curiosity is useless if you can’t fight.” Her eyes glint cruelly. “Step onto the mat.”
A nervous laugh tumbles out. “No, thanks. Violence isn’t…my world.”
“Porcelain shatters easily.” She circles me, her voice dripping venom. “If you want to survive beside Enzo, softness won’t save you.” Her tone strikes deeper than an insult.
Against my better judgment, I join her on the mat.
She circles me slowly, sizing me up before dashing forward and shoving me.
I stumble back. The humiliation burns hotter than the pain as I straighten and roll my shoulders. Fire sparks in my belly once I return to my feet.
Again, she comes, this time sweeping my arm and twisting. I hit the mat hard. Air leaves my lungs, but my pride stings more than my body.
She crouches close, bringing her face near mine. “Decide. Prey, or something worth his protection?”
Her words brand themselves inside me.
She lets me up and walks away. I’m trembling, not from bruises, but from the question she planted. Back outside, the air tastes different. Sharper. Izzy’s right.
I need steel, not softness. Miss Martinelli simply won’t do in this world.
The day is long, but night finally settles over the mini villa in inky shadows as I wait for Enzo in the living room, my fingers fiddling with the edge of my dress.
Vincent is active, and I might know his next play. That thought scratches at my insides.
The door creaks and footsteps follow, then he appears.
Enzo stands there, the silver hair at his temples glinting in the light. His tie is loose, and his jacket hangs off his arm, but the guy’s wound tight, his shoulders bunched like he’s carrying the entire family’s drama on his back.
Before thought can cage me, I cross over to him and wrap my arms around his chest.
“Long day?”
