They won’t touch him.

They won’t touch him.
Isla’s POV

The SUV tore down the abandoned road like it had a pulse—like it wanted blood as much as I did. The wind howled through cracks in the warped frame, whipping strands of my hair across my face, stinging my eyes that were already raw from unshed tears. The engine growled under my foot, a deep, rumbling beast that matched the fury boiling in my veins, every vibration a reminder that we were racing toward something that could either save Angelo… or end everything.

My knuckles ached from gripping the wheel so tightly, the leather creaking under my fingers as if protesting the pressure. The dashboard lights cast an eerie glow on my hands, highlighting the dirt and dried blood—mine? Marco's? It didn't matter. All that mattered was the road ahead, swallowing us into the night, and the man I loved bleeding somewhere in the darkness.

Sofia leaned forward from the passenger seat, her phone screen lighting her face in ghostly blue flashes that made her look like a specter from one of those old mafia tales Angelo used to tell me on quiet nights. “They’ll regroup here,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the engine's roar, zooming in on an industrial complex tucked in a dead zone outside the city. The map showed a sprawling maze of buildings, forgotten by time, marked with red X's that I assumed meant danger. “Old textile factory. Cameras offline. No heat signatures from above. Perfect for a covert handoff.”

A covert handoff.

The thought made bile rise in my throat, hot and acidic, threatening to choke me. I swallowed hard, forcing it down, but it left a bitter taste. Handing off Angelo like he was some commodity, some prize in their twisted game. The image flashed unbidden: him bound, his dark eyes defiant even through the pain, his broad shoulders slumped not from defeat but from the weight of protecting us. Protecting me. Protecting Luca. God, Luca—my baby, almost one, with his father's curls and that innocent smile that could light up the darkest room. He was safe back at the estate, guarded by the few loyal men we had left, but every mile away from him felt like a betrayal. What if they came for him while we were gone? What if this was all a distraction?

“They won’t touch him,” I said, barely recognizing my own voice. It was steel, sharpened by pain, laced with a venom I didn't know I possessed. “They’re not taking Luca. They’re not taking Angelo. I don’t care who they are—who they think they are. I'll burn it all down before I let them win.”

Marco let out a ragged breath from the backseat, shifting with a wince that betrayed the wound under his torn shirt. He looked half-dead—blood caking his knuckles, soot smeared across his face like war paint, his usually stoic expression cracked with exhaustion and rage. But his eyes burned with the same fire that fueled me, a shared inferno born from years of loyalty to Angelo. “When we find him,” he said, his voice gravelly, thick with the Italian accent that always thickened under stress, “we hit hard. Fast. No hesitation. No mercy. These bastards think they can take the boss? I'll carve out their hearts myself.”

“We don’t know how many are there,” Sofia warned, her tone clipped, practical, but I caught the undercurrent of doubt. She glanced back at Marco, her green eyes narrowing. “You’re in no shape for a bloodbath. One wrong move, and you bleed out before we even see him.”

Marco snarled, leaning forward despite the pain, his face twisting. “You think a little blood stops me? I've bled for Angelo since I was a kid. Watched him build this empire from nothing. You? You're a ghost from his past, showing up now like some savior. Why should we trust you won't sell us out the second it gets hot?”

Sofia's jaw tightened, but she didn't flinch. “Because if I wanted you dead, you'd be cold already. And because I owe him. More than you know.”

“Owe him?” I snapped, my eyes flicking to her in the rearview mirror before snapping back to the road. The headlights cut through the fog like knives, illuminating potholes that jolted us every few seconds. “What does that even mean? You've been dropping hints like breadcrumbs, but I'm done with games. Who are you to him, really? Ex-lover? Spy? Traitor?”

She hesitated, her fingers pausing on the phone screen. The silence stretched, heavy and charged, broken only by the hum of the tires and Marco's labored breathing. Finally, she exhaled, her voice softer, almost reluctant. “We were... complicated. Before Maria. Before everything fell apart. He saved me once—from a life worse than death. I walked away because I had to. But debts like that don't expire.”

Marco huffed, but there was less venom in it. “Complicated. That's what they all say.”

“Enough,” I cut in, my voice sharp enough to slice through the tension. “We don't have time for old grudges. Angelo's out there—hurt, alone—and Luca's waiting for us to bring his father home. So shut up and focus.”

She studied me for a long moment, her expression unreadable in the dim light. “You’re different, you know. Stronger than I expected. The nanny who became the queen.”

“I’m the mother of the boy they’re hunting,” I replied, my words laced with ice. “What did you expect? Fear? Tears? I've cried enough. Now, I fight.”

“No,” she whispered, a hollow laugh escaping her lips, brittle and echoing in the confined space. “This. This fire. This is what terrifies them. A woman who loves like a weapon.”

The warehouse appeared ahead—a hulking box of rusted metal and broken windows, looming like a beast from the shadows. Floodlights illuminated the outer yard, sweeping in slow, mechanical arcs that cast long, twisting shadows across the cracked concrete. Armed shadows moved between the beams, their silhouettes elongated and menacing, rifles glinting under the harsh light. I counted at least four visible, but who knew how many lurked inside? My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat that echoed Luca's tiny heartbeat in my memory—the way he'd patter against my chest when I held him close, safe from the world.

“Drive past,” Sofia ordered quietly, her voice a thread of steel. “Don’t look directly. Don’t slow down. Act like we're just passing through.”

I did as she said, heart hammering louder than the engine. As we passed the entrance, two sentries stood beside a black van—the same kind that had taken Angelo, its doors dented and scarred from whatever hellish pursuits it had seen. They scanned the road, rifles slung casually over their shoulders, like they didn’t fear anything in this world. One turned his head slightly as we drove by, his eyes hidden behind reflective goggles, but I felt his gaze like a physical touch, crawling over my skin. My breath hitched—did he see us? Recognize the SUV?