Chapter 60 -LORENZO’S RAGE
The warehouse stank of oil, old iron, and blood.
The kind of place where secrets didn’t echo—they were swallowed whole.
Isabella stood in the shadows beside Niccolò, pulse thundering as Lorenzo entered with the controlled fury of a man whose patience had run out. His suit jacket was off, sleeves rolled to his elbows, jaw set in a line carved from stone.
Two guards dragged in a man—bound, beaten, and barely conscious. A Venturi mole. The one they’d caught lurking near Lorenzo’s private docks.
The moment the traitor’s head lifted and his gaze flickered across the room, Isabella’s stomach knotted.
He recognized her.
Not by name. But by fear.
Lorenzo noticed.
Of course he noticed.
He always noticed.
He stood in front of the mole, hands clasped behind his back, expression unreadable.
“Do you know why you’re still alive?” Lorenzo asked quietly.
The mole’s voice cracked. “T—to make me talk.”
Lorenzo smiled without warmth. “No. You’re alive because I decided not to stain my floors at home.”
A ripple of dread skittered up Isabella’s spine.
This was not the Lorenzo she’d danced with.
Not the man who stared at her like she was both salvation and sin.
This was the Don.
Marco stepped forward, handing Lorenzo a knife. Sleek. Beautiful. Wicked.
Lorenzo didn’t look at it.
His eyes were on her.
Every flicker of emotion across her face.
Every tremor in her breath.
Every attempt to hide herself.
Isabella held his gaze for half a second—too long—and looked away.
He saw that too.
The mole whimpered. “Please—please, I can talk—”
“You will,” Lorenzo murmured. “And then you’ll die.”
Before the words fully settled, he struck.
Not with dramatic cruelty, but with cold, practiced efficiency. A slice to the shoulder, a second to the thigh. Not deep enough to kill, but enough to break whatever resistance the man had left.
Isabella flinched.
Lorenzo’s attention snapped to her like a predator scenting blood.
She forced herself to go still, to breathe evenly, to bury her horror beneath an expression she’d practiced for months.
But Lorenzo was studying her like a man reading a confession etched in bone.
“Who sent you?” Lorenzo asked calmly.
“I—I don’t know his name! He contacts me—burner phones—orders only!”
Lorenzo tilted his head. “What orders?”
“T—to track… people around the estate.”
“Which people?”
Isabella froze.
The mole’s eyes darted in her direction.
Panic coiled tight in her throat.
Lorenzo saw. And something flickered in his eyes—dark, dangerous, deadly-curious.
“Which. People?” Lorenzo asked again.
The mole swallowed. “A woman.”
Isabella’s lungs seized.
“What woman?” Lorenzo asked, voice soft as silk, sharp as knives.
“I don’t know her name,” the mole cried. “Just… instructions to watch her movements. Report who she meets. When she leaves. Anything unusual.”
“Describe her,” Lorenzo said.
The mole hesitated, trembling.
His gaze flicked to Isabella again.
Lorenzo followed it.
And the world tilted.
For the first time in her life, Isabella truly understood what it meant to be prey.
Lorenzo turned slowly, deliberately, until his full attention pinned her in place. His eyes were shards of obsidian—cold, glittering, violent.
“Describe her,” Lorenzo repeated to the mole, without breaking eye contact with Isabella.
“She—she’s beautiful,” the mole stammered. “Dark hair. Brown eyes. New to the estate. Works… close to you.”
Niccolò shifted beside her, hand subtly drifting toward his gun, as if anticipating a fight.
Or a killing.
Lorenzo said nothing.
He didn’t need to.
His silence was a blade at her throat.
The mole sobbed. “I swear, I never harmed her! I just watched—”
Lorenzo moved so fast the room barely caught it.
A flick of the knife. A sharp cry. Blood splattered across the concrete.
The mole fell to his side, gasping.
Isabella’s breath hitched.
Lorenzo heard it.
He leaned down, voice almost tender. “Next time, answer quickly. You cost yourself five extra minutes.”
The mole whimpered, shaking violently. “P—please…”
“Enough,” Lorenzo murmured.
Then he plunged the knife into the man’s heart.
The sound—soft, final—echoed in the warehouse.
Isabella stiffened.
Lorenzo rose slowly, wiping the blade with a handkerchief Marco offered. He spoke over his shoulder.
“Dispose of him. Burn whatever’s left.”
“Yes, Don,” Marco said.
Lorenzo turned toward Isabella again.
Each step he took toward her echoed like a countdown.
Niccolò subtly stepped forward to shield her, but Lorenzo flicked him a look cold enough to freeze stone.
“Leave us,” he commanded.
Niccolò hesitated. “Don Lorenzo—”
“That wasn’t a request.”
Niccolò stepped back.
Lorenzo closed the distance between him and Isabella, stopping a breath away. Close enough that she could feel the heat of him. Close enough that she could smell the rain on his skin, the metallic whisper of blood lingering in the air.
He lifted a hand—slowly, almost lovingly—and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
Her pulse thundered.
“You’re trembling,” he said, voice low.
“I’m standing next to a man who just committed murder,” she whispered.
His lips curved slightly. “You’ve seen me kill before.”
“But not like this.”
A slow inhale. “Because today wasn’t about him.”
His eyes darkened.
“It was about you.”
Her knees almost buckled.
“Lorenzo—”
“You heard what he said.” His voice barely a whisper. “Someone sent him to watch you.”
“I—I know.”
“And you’re shaking.” His fingers brushed her jaw. “Not because of him. Because of what I might do.”
Isabella forced herself to meet his gaze.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she lied.
He smiled faintly. “Then you’re not as smart as I thought.”
Her heart hammered painfully.
Lorenzo tilted her chin up, studying every line of her face like he was cataloguing the truth she refused to give.
“Tell me,” he murmured. “Who is watching you, Isabella?”
Her breath hitched.
She felt everything collapsing—lies, secrets, the fragile threads holding her in place.
“I don’t know,” she said.
He watched her.
Too long.
Too deeply.
Too knowingly.
Finally, he leaned closer, his lips grazing her ear.
“I don’t believe you.”
Then he stepped back, mask slipping over his expression once more—polished, unreadable, terrifyingly calm.
“Stay close today,” he said. “Closer than usual.”
“Why?”
“Because someone thinks they can touch what’s mine.”
Her breath stalled.
“And I intend to prove them wrong.”
He walked away before she could speak.
But as the warehouse doors slammed shut behind him, one truth settled like ice in her bones:
Lorenzo wasn’t just suspicious.
He was hunting for answers.
And she was running out of time before he found them.