Chapter 98: Anchored in Fear
Lorenzo lifted Isla from the floor, her body trembling with spent terror and exhaustion, and held her tightly against his chest. Her surrender was complete, and the victory, though necessary, tasted like ash on his tongue. He had achieved his goal: eliminating her fight instinct by making her feel responsible for the safety of her loved ones.
"The danger is not here, Isla," he murmured, stroking her hair. "The danger is anywhere that allows doubt and escape. We are moving."
He didn't wait for her to recover. Time was a luxury he couldn't afford, especially with the unstable situation surrounding Viktor’s father. He needed to place her on ground zero—a fortress completely isolated from the threats that haunted his mainland operations.
Within the hour, the mansion was a hive of silent, organized activity. Isla was dressed, bundled into a new, heavy black coat, and guided through the underground passage. The sight of the massive, black military-grade helicopter waiting on the helipad was proof enough of the lengths he would go to maintain his sphere of control.
He strapped her into the leather seat beside him. She was silent, her gaze fixed and vacant, offering no resistance. The helicopter lifted with a dizzying roar, leaving the cold, snow-dusted mountains behind.
Lorenzo used the long flight to assess his triumph. He glanced at her often. Her face was pale, drawn, and haunted, but she was alive, she was his, and she was silent. That was all that mattered.
After hours of flying over the endless, shimmering blue expanse, the world below shifted. The gray mainland gave way to an explosion of tropical color: a massive, impossibly green island surrounded by brilliant white sand and an azure reef.
When the helicopter landed softly on the manicured lawn, the heat and humidity hit them instantly, thick with the scent of jasmine and salt air. It was a private paradise, secluded and utterly isolated—a prison built by God, owned by Lorenzo.
He unstrapped himself, then gently helped Isla out. She stumbled slightly, blinking against the equatorial light.
"Welcome, Isla," he said, keeping a possessive hand settled firmly on the small of her back. He looked at the vast, empty horizon. "We are a long way from any convenient distractions. This is where your new life truly begins."
The Perimeter of the World
The compound was breathtaking: a sprawling series of glass and teak structures built directly into a low cliff overlooking a secluded bay. It was modern, airy, and utterly exposed to the sea—the only escape was the ocean itself.
As they walked toward the house, two men in crisp white uniforms appeared, bowing respectfully before vanishing back into the shadows of the palm trees. They were not the bulky security thugs from the mall; these were efficient, silent sentries, trained for precision and absolute loyalty.
Inside, the house was cool, filled with the ambient sounds of the ocean. He led her directly to the master suite. It was enormous, dominated by a massive bed facing a wall of glass that looked out onto the beach and the distant, empty sea.
"Change out of that heavy coat," he commanded, stepping toward the connected bath suite. "We are in the tropics now."
Isla finally spoke, her voice weak, devoid of emotion. "Where is... where is Raymond?"
Lorenzo stopped, his hand resting on the marble doorframe. He knew he had to eliminate all vestiges of doubt about the threat, even now.
"Raymond is fine," he lied smoothly, his eyes cold and unwavering. "He is alive, but he is under constant observation. His well-being depends on his belief that you are simply gone and unreachable. If he ever hears from you, if he ever sees you, if you make a single move against my rules, the security status changes from observation to execution. Do you understand the definition of execution, Isla?"
She nodded slowly, the light dying completely from her eyes.
"Good. Now, unpack. You have a new wardrobe here, suitable for the climate. I will return at sunset."
He left the room, sealing her into the large, glass cage.
Isla walked slowly to the wall of glass. The scene was idyllic, beautiful—a private beach, coral gardens visible through the clear water, a small dock where a yacht was moored.
There is no escape.
She looked left: dense jungle and rocky cliffs. She looked right: more jungle, leading to a sheer drop into the sea. Straight ahead was nothing but the vast, hostile ocean. Even if she swam, where would she go? There were no lights on the horizon, no neighboring islands visible.
She was trapped on an island owned by a man who had proved he would commit any act of violence necessary to keep her. The beauty of the private island was a façade; the true walls were the fear for her friends, the diamond tracker on her neck, and the thousands of miles of ocean that separated her from the rest of the world.
She stripped off the heavy black coat. It was hot, suffocating. She walked into the massive closet. Inside were racks of light linens, silk dresses, swimwear, and sandals—a wardrobe meticulously curated for life as Lorenzo's captive on his tropical throne.
She chose a simple white linen dress and walked back out, pulling the cold diamonds of the tracker over the high neckline. She stood at the edge of the glass, staring at the endless blue.
I am here, she thought, the finality of it crushing her. I am here, and I am his.
—-
Lorenzo POV
The island was quiet—too quiet.
The kind of silence that comes after violence, not before it.
I stood on the terrace overlooking the endless blue, the last traces of sunset bleeding across the horizon like a dying ember. The glass railing reflected the gold burn of the sky, but I saw none of it. My mind was wired, cold, calculating.
Isla was somewhere behind me inside the suite—small, fragile, silent. Broken but alive. Safe on the island where no one could touch her. Not Viktor. Not his father. Not the filthy empire he built from blood and ash.
Not even her own impulses.
The phone in my pocket vibrated once.
Nico.
I answered without turning. “Speak.”
“You need to go easy on her,” he said. His voice was flat, always flat—Nico wore emotions the way I wore scars: hidden unless someone tore them open. “She’s not like us.”
A muscle in my jaw twitched. “Easy is what got her nearly killed.”
“You burned her house down,” he reminded me quietly.
“I saved her life.”
“You terrified her.”
“I protected her.” I could hear my own pulse tightening, cold and even. “She would have run. And if she ran, Viktor’s father would have found her. You know that.”
Silence hummed at the other end. Nico wasn’t arguing—he was calculating, same as me.
“So what about her friend?” he asked. “Raymond.”
I leaned my palms on the glass railing, letting the warm ocean wind cut across my face. “Alive. Untouched.” A pause. “The video was faked.”
Nico exhaled a low, sharp breath—the closest thing he ever had to surprise.
“You told Isla it was real.”
“She needed to believe it.” My voice stayed calm, emotionless. “Fear anchors her to me. And here, anchored is safe.”
“You’re crossing a line, Enzo.”
“I crossed it the moment she saved my life,” I said.
I heard Nico swallow on the other side—barely audible, but enough. “So she really doesn’t know.”
“She knows nothing,” I said. “And that’s how it will stay.”
“Right.” His voice cooled again. “There’s something else.”
Of course there is. There always is.
“Belly is back.”
For the first time all day, something sharp cracked through my calm. The ocean breeze suddenly felt too warm, too soft, too alive.
My grip tightened on the railing. “From Japan?”
“Yes.”
“And she wants to see me?”
“She demanded,” Nico said. “She’s already at headquarters.”
A dull, poisonous heat slid through me. Belly always felt like that—like venom warming the bloodstream. Familiar. Toxic. Beautiful and dangerous in the way only a mafia heiress with no fear could be.
She was the only woman who had ever loved me the way death loves a body—completely, obsessively, until nothing is left.
“Ignore her,” I said.
Nico laughed once—humorless. “Impossible.”
“I don’t give a damn.”
“She’s furious, Enzo. And Belly furious makes the Russian border look peaceful.”
“I don’t have time for her.”
“You don’t have a choice,” Nico said. He lowered his voice. “She’s not here for a visit. She came back with men. She came back…prepared.”
Prepared for war.
I closed my eyes briefly. The wind pressed against the back of my neck like a warning.
“Handle her,” I said.
“You know she won’t listen to anyone but you.”
“Then keep her away from the island.”
Another beat.
“Are you planning to tell Isla?” Nico asked.
A cold, humorless smile touched my mouth. “Tell her what? That I once slept with a woman who would put a bullet through her spine just for breathing the same air as me?”
Nico didn’t answer.
“She’s already terrified,” I said. “Good. Fear keeps her alive.”
“And you?” he asked quietly. “Who keeps you alive?”
I didn’t answer either.
Before he could push further, I hung up.
The phone felt warm against my palm—I dropped it on the glass table behind me.
Inside the suite, movement stirred.
Soft. Slow. Fragile.
Isla.
I could hear her footsteps on the polished wood, the small scrape of her breath, the faint rustle of the thin linen dress I chose for her. She stopped a meter behind me—I didn’t need to look to know exactly where she stood.
The silence wrapped around us, thick and humid. The air smelled like salt, jasmine, and the subtle sweetness of her skin.
Her voice came, tiny, almost lost in the wind.
“Lorenzo?”