Chapter 40 -THE CLIFFHANGER
Gianni Bianchi had always known the risk.
Every message he sent to Isabella.
Every file he passed.
Every whisper exchanged in shadowed streets.
But he never imagined the walls would close in this fast.
Now he hung from a rusting hook in a warehouse on the edge of Milan, wrists bleeding from where the chains bit into his skin. The air stank of oil and iron. A single bulb flickered overhead, spotlighting him like prey.
Marco Ferri stood in front of him, sleeves rolled past his elbows, tie discarded, expression carved in stone.
“Journalists,” Marco muttered, wiping blood from his knuckles with a handkerchief. “You all think you’re immortal.”
Gianni spat a trail of red onto the floor. “No,” he rasped, “we just think monsters shouldn’t run cities.”
Another blow slammed into his ribs. Something cracked—Gianni’s breath folded into a strangled groan.
Marco didn’t even look winded.
“You know,” he said casually, pacing. “I didn’t think you had the guts. Feeding intel to the Venturi family? Helping them try to kill Lorenzo?” He clicked his tongue. “Stupid. Suicidal, even.”
Gianni’s laugh was hoarse. “Better men than you have tried to silence the truth.”
Marco’s fist flew again—swift, direct, with the cold precision of a man beating a confession out of a corpse.
Twenty minutes passed. Or an hour. Time dissolved under pain.
Finally, Marco crouched, gripping Gianni’s chin. “Let’s stop wasting time. We traced the leak to you. But we know you didn’t get this information alone.” He leaned closer, voice dropping into a whisper sharpened by threat. “Who helped you?”
Gianni’s entire body trembled—not from fear, but from the effort of holding back the truth.
He couldn’t say her name.
He wouldn’t.
He would die first.
Marco lifted a brow, as if reading his resolve. “Very well.”
A new tool glinted under the warehouse light.
Gianni screamed.
And screamed.
And finally broke.
His voice was shredded, barely human anymore.
“The leak… it came… from someone close… to De Luca.” He coughed blood. “A woman.”
Marco stilled.
“Name.”
Gianni shook his head, sobbing. “I—don’t—know her name. But she’s close. Very close.”
Marco stood, dialing his phone. “Boss,” he said when Lorenzo answered, “we have a complication.”
The De Luca estate was too quiet.
Too still.
Isabella felt it like a hand around her throat, tightening with every passing hour. Niccolò hadn’t left his post outside her door. Guards patrolled the hallways with heavier steps than usual. Somewhere downstairs, a door slammed, followed by hurried voices.
Isabella stood in the center of her room, arms wrapped around herself.
“Something’s wrong,” she whispered.
Her pulse throbbed in her ears. Every instinct screamed that the world was tilting, sliding toward a precipice she couldn’t escape from.
She should run.
She should disappear.
Whatever was happening, it was coming for her.
A soft buzz echoed from her burner phone—the one hidden beneath a loose floorboard.
Her breath stopped.
She knelt, retrieving it with shaking hands.
One message flashed on the screen:
THEY GOT ME. RUN. — G
Her body went cold.
“No,” she whispered, clutching the device. “Gianni… oh God.”
She barely had time to stand before the door swung open.
Lorenzo stepped inside.
He never knocked. But tonight, he didn’t even offer the ghost of a smile, or warmth, or acknowledgment. He looked carved from marble—cold, dangerous, untouchable.
His eyes found her instantly.
“Isabella.”
Her breath stuttered. “Lorenzo—what happened?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he closed the door behind him, the click sounding like a verdict.
He approached slowly, each step measured. Controlled. Predatory.
“Marco called,” he said at last. “We found the person leaking information to Venturi.”
Her knees weakened. Her fingers trembled at her sides. “W-who?”
“A journalist.” His jaw tightened. “Gianni Bianchi.”
Her lungs froze mid-inhale.
Don’t react. Don’t react. Don’t react.
“Gianni?” she whispered, perfectly feigning confusion. “I—I don’t—”
He cut her off with a single word.
“Stop.”
She flinched.
Lorenzo’s gaze darkened, studying her face with unnerving, dissecting calm.
“He confessed under interrogation.” His voice dropped, heavy with suspicion. “He said the leak came from someone close to me.”
Her heart crashed violently against her ribs.
“And how close?” Lorenzo asked, stepping closer. “My staff? My advisors? My inner circle?” He paused. “My bed?”
Isabella swallowed hard. “Lorenzo, you don’t truly believe—”
“I believe,” he said softly, “that coincidences don’t exist.”
He reached out and gently lifted her chin—not lovingly, not possessively, but analytically, like he was searching her eyes for fractures.
“You’ve been nervous.” His thumb brushed her cheek. “Too nervous. Since the docks.” He leaned in. “Since the device was found.”
Her voice wavered. “I explained that.”
“No,” he murmured, “you lied beautifully.”
She felt tears burn behind her eyes.
He noticed.
For a moment, his expression shifted—pain, conflict, something human struggling beneath the surface—but it vanished just as quickly.
“Marco will break him,” Lorenzo said, stepping back. “Completely. And then he’ll give the name.”
Her stomach dropped. “Lorenzo, listen to me—”
“Are you scared?” he asked quietly.
She froze.
He took a slow breath, gaze piercing, studying every flicker of emotion on her face.
“You should be,” he finished.
Her hands trembled uncontrollably now.
Because he was right.
Because she was scared.
Because Gianni was breaking apart in some warehouse, dragged into hell because of her, and the truth would spill from his mouth soon—whether he wanted it to or not.
And when it did, Lorenzo would know.
He would know everything.
Her lies.
Her mission.
Her betrayal.
He would destroy her.
And worse… she wasn’t sure she would survive watching him look at her with the kind of hatred he reserved for traitors.
“I’m going to the warehouse,” Lorenzo said, turning toward the door. “When I come back, the truth will be waiting.”
Her heart cracked. “Don’t go,” she whispered, the plea escaping without permission. “Lorenzo—please—”
He paused.
A single heartbeat.
But he didn’t look back.
“Marco says it won’t be long.”
“Lorenzo—”
“If there’s something you’ve been hiding,” he said, voice razor-sharp, “pray that I never hear it from another man’s mouth.”
The door shut behind him with a final, devastating thud.
Isabella collapsed to her knees, hands clutching the carpet, breath shattering.
Gianni was breaking.
Lorenzo was learning.
And she was running out of places to hide.
Outside, engines roared to life.
A convoy rolled out into the night.
Toward Gianni.
Toward the truth.
Toward the end of everything.
And in the suffocating silence of the mansion, Isabella finally understood—
love was not saving her.
It was sealing her fate.