Chapter 15
Isabella's POV
Sigrid's smile widens with satisfaction. "Good girl. Now, here's what we're going to do."
She moves to the window, checking the grounds with practiced precision that seems oddly professional for a socialite. "My Mercedes is in the circular drive. I told the guards I'm here for a social call. They won't suspect anything if we walk out together."
"But what if Marco comes back early?"
"He won't. Marco's in Manhattan until evening—board meeting with the Commission. I made sure of it."
"You've been planning this."
"Of course I planned it." There's something almost predatory in her smile now. "I've been watching, waiting for the right opportunity."
She turns from the window, and for a moment, her blue eyes hold something I don't recognize. Something cold.
"Isabella, Marco is getting worse. The bodies that have been turning up... he's becoming unhinged."
A chill runs down my spine. "What bodies?"
"Federal witnesses. Rival family members. Anyone who crosses him. He's not just killing for business anymore—it's personal now. Psychological."
I think of Viktor's execution. The complete lack of emotion on his face as he pulled the trigger.
"And the way he talks about you..." Sigrid's voice drops to a whisper. "He's told people that if he can't have you, no one can. Isabella, he's planning to kill you rather than let you go."
The words hit like ice water. Marco's possessiveness, his rage, the way he looked at me—suddenly it all makes terrifying sense.
"We need to move now," I whisper.
"Exactly." Sigrid checks her Cartier watch with movements that seem almost military in their precision. "Three-hour window. Enough time to get you somewhere completely safe."
"Where?"
"I have a place arranged. Upstate, completely off the grid. Somewhere you can disappear while we arrange new documentation, new identity, new life."
She moves to the door, pressing her ear against it. The villa is quieter than usual—most of Marco's men handling business in the city.
"Do you have anything you need to take?"
I look around the bedroom that's been my prison. Designer clothes bought with blood money. Jewelry meant to mark me as property. Even the bed holds too many memories of Marco's possession.
"No," I say firmly. "I don't want anything from this place."
"Good. Travel light, move fast." She opens the door. "Coast is clear. Remember—we're two friends going to lunch in the city. Casual, normal, nothing suspicious."
My heart hammers as we slip out of the bedroom. Each step echoes louder than it should in the marble corridors. We pass oil paintings of Salvatore patriarchs, their dark eyes seeming to follow our progress.
At the top of the grand staircase, Sigrid pauses, listening. Below, I can hear distant sounds of the kitchen staff preparing dinner, the quiet murmur of guards conducting their rounds.
"If anyone stops us, let me do the talking," she whispers. "Trust me to handle this."
We descend side by side, our footsteps muffled by the thick Persian runner. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I can see her silver Mercedes gleaming in the afternoon sun.
Freedom. Just a few more steps.
But as we reach the main floor, my heart sinks. Enzo stands by the front door, the thick-set soldato who's been watching me since I returned. His face hardens when he sees us approaching.
"Miss Isabella," he says carefully, his hand resting casually near his jacket where I know he keeps his gun. "Where are you going?"
This is it. This is where it all falls apart.
"With me," Sigrid answers smoothly, stepping slightly in front of me. "I'm taking Miss Romano to lunch in the city."
The transformation in her voice is startling. Gone is the concerned friend. In her place stands someone who clearly expects immediate obedience.
Enzo's eyes flick between us, suspicion clear on his weathered face. He knows his orders—I'm not supposed to leave the villa without Marco's explicit permission.
"I should call Don Marco," he says slowly, his hand moving toward his jacket pocket where his phone waits.
"You should do your job," Sigrid replies coolly, and suddenly there's steel in her voice that makes even me step back. "Which is to show respect to guests of the Salvatore family."
"Don Marco didn't mention any lunch plans," Enzo continues, but there's uncertainty in his voice now.
"Don Marco doesn't need to mention every social engagement," Sigrid cuts him off with icy authority. "Unless you're suggesting that Miss Romano is a prisoner here?"
The question hangs in the air like a loaded gun. Enzo's face reddens—being called out on the family's secrets in front of an outsider.
"Of course not, Miss Larsson. But my orders—"
"Your orders are to protect this family's interests," Sigrid interrupts, her smile razor-sharp. "Not to insult guests with suspicious interrogations. We'll be back before dinner."
Before dinner. Another lie that tastes like freedom.
Enzo hesitates, clearly torn between his suspicions and the authority radiating from this seemingly innocent socialite. Finally, he steps aside.
"Enjoy your lunch, Miss Isabella."
The front door swings open, and cool afternoon air hits my face. The scent of salt water and escape mingles with the autumn breeze.
Sigrid's Mercedes purrs to life as we approach. She opens the passenger door for me, and I slide into the butter-soft leather seat with hands that shake despite my efforts to appear calm.
I'm really doing this. I'm really leaving.
Sigrid settles behind the wheel, adjusting the rearview mirror. "Ready?"
I look back at Villa Salvatore one last time. Centuries of Salvatore power and violence rising from manicured lawns like a monument to beautiful brutality.
Marco is somewhere in Manhattan, probably discussing territory and tribute with other crime bosses. When he comes home tonight and finds me gone...
The thought should terrify me. Instead, it fills me with savage satisfaction.
"Yes," I whisper. "I'm ready."
The Mercedes rolls forward, carrying me away from Villa Salvatore. Away from Marco. Away from three years of captivity and weeks of golden imprisonment.
In the side mirror, I watch the estate shrink until it's just another dark shape against the Long Island sky.
Free.
As we pass through the estate gates, I feel something I haven't felt in years—hope.
"Thank you," I say quietly, my voice thick with gratitude. "For everything. For risking yourself to save me."
Sigrid's reflection smiles in the rearview mirror, but something about her expression in the shifting afternoon light makes me pause. For just a moment, her smile looks different. Sharper. More satisfied than relieved.
"That's what friends are for, bella."
The way she says it—so smooth, so practiced, so final—sends the tiniest chill down my spine.
But I shake it off. You're being paranoid. This woman just saved your life.
Whatever comes next, at least I'll face it as a free woman.
The countryside begins to flash past the windows as we head toward whatever new life awaits me.