Chapter 17
Isabella's POV
The warehouse door slams shut behind us with a sound like a coffin closing. The Benedetti soldiers force me deeper into the concrete tomb, past familiar sights that make my blood freeze.
The same fluorescent lights. The same stained concrete floors. The same metal restraint table in the center.
This is the exact place where I spent three years being systematically broken. Every detail exactly as I left it—down to the rust stains I know are my own blood.
They shove me forward, and I stumble against a concrete pillar. But the worst part isn't being here again—it's the woman standing calmly in the center, smoothing down her Chanel suit like she's at a charity luncheon.
Something cold crawls up my spine as I stare at her. The way she's standing here, so composed—like she belongs in this place of horrors.
"We're best friends," I whisper, needing to hear her deny it. "Aren't we, Sigrid?"
Her laugh echoes off the concrete walls, cold and sharp as breaking glass. "Best friends?" She shakes her head, blonde hair catching the harsh light. "Oh, Isabella. Sweet, naive Isabella."
The casual cruelty in her voice is like a slap. This isn't the woman who held my hair back when I was sick, who stayed up all night helping me study. Or maybe I never knew her at all.
"When did you start working for Marco?" The question tumbles out desperately.
Sigrid pauses mid-step, surprise flickering across her face followed by condescending amusement.
"Working for Marco?" She throws her head back and laughs. "Oh, you precious little fool."
She begins to pace, predatory now, circling me like a shark that's caught the scent of blood.
"Marco?" Her voice drips with mock confusion. "This has nothing to do with Marco Salvatore."
My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat. "What are you talking about?"
"This is about me," she says simply. "About what I want. What I've always wanted."
The warehouse tilts around me. "I don't understand."
"Of course you don't." Her smile is cold and superior. "You never were very bright, were you? Always so trusting, so willing to believe everyone had your best interests at heart."
"What did I ever do to you?" The word barely comes out. "We were friends. College roommates. We—"
"Friends?" Sigrid's voice rises with incredulous laughter. "Isabella, my father runs a Wall Street empire. We dine with senators, vacation with foreign ministers."
She gestures at me with disgust.
"And you? Your father fixes rich people's toilets. You were never my friend—you were my charity case."
Each word is a dagger, but I force myself to stand straighter. "If you felt that way, why the elaborate charade? Why help me escape just to bring me here?"
"Because of him." Something dangerous flickers in her eyes. "Because you caught the attention of someone who should have been mine."
"Marco."
"Marco Salvatore," she breathes his name like a prayer. "The most powerful man in New York. And he chose you."
Understanding crashes over me like a wave. "You wanted him."
"I've wanted Marco Salvatore since I was sixteen years old," she admits without shame. "I was meant to be his donna. I have the breeding, the education, the family connections for that role."
"So you destroyed my life because you were jealous?"
"I wasn't jealous—I was offended," she snaps. "Offended that a man of Marco's caliber would waste himself on someone so completely beneath him."
Years of suppressed resentment pour out like poison.
"Do you have any idea how humiliating it was? Watching him choose a nobody from Brooklyn over someone actually worthy?"
Her face contorts with fury, beautiful features twisted into something ugly and hate-filled.
"If you loved him, why didn't you just tell him?"
"Because you were in the way!" she explodes. "Because he was so obsessed with you, so blinded by whatever pathetic spell you cast!"
My mind races, trying to piece together what she's saying. "So you... what? You planned this whole rescue just to deliver me back here?"
"I thought three years in this hellhole would have cured him of his obsession," she confirms, her voice filled with bitter frustration. "But when I heard he'd brought you back to Villa Salvatore, when I saw how he still looked at you..."
Her face contorts with fury.
"That's when I realized my mistake. Time wasn't enough. Distance wasn't enough." She stops in front of me, blue eyes blazing with fanatic fervor. "Marco doesn't love easily, but when he does, it's forever. Obsessive. Consuming."
The truth crystallizes. "So you decided to kill me."
"I decided to solve the problem permanently," she corrects with chilling calm. "The only way Marco will ever be free to love me is if you're completely out of the picture. Dead."
"You're insane. Even if you kill me, Marco will never love you."
Her smile is brilliant and unrepentant. "We'll see about that."
"Sigrid, please—" I try one last desperate appeal. "Whatever happened three years ago, whoever really killed Lucia, we can figure it out together. You don't have to do this."
Something flickers across her face—too quick to interpret, but there's a darkness there that makes my blood freeze.
"Oh, but I do." Her voice is steady again, resolved. "Because some problems require permanent solutions."
She signals to her men. They move toward me with practiced efficiency.
"Sigrid, please—I'll disappear, leave the country—"
"Oh, but you will disappear. Right here, right now. And this time, Marco will never know what happened to you."
The soldiers grab my arms, their grip like iron bands. I struggle uselessly as they drag me toward the metal table.
"Not again! I can't do this again!"
"You can and you will. Only this time, you'll stay here until you die."
They force me onto the cold surface. The restraints click into place with horrible finality, triggering every trauma response. A soldier prepares a syringe with amber liquid—Colombian pure cocaine.
"Please," I whisper as the needle approaches, gleaming in the harsh light. "I never hurt you."
"You existed," Sigrid replies coldly. "You dared to think you could have what was mine."
The needle slides into my vein. Familiar fire courses through my system, making the lights brighter, my heart race with artificial energy that feels like dying and being reborn.
Here we go again.
As the drug floods my system and consciousness fragments, I hold onto one desperate thought:
Marco doesn't know where I am. This time, I'm truly alone.
The last thing I see before the chemical haze takes over is Sigrid's satisfied smile, beautiful and terrible.
No rescue. No salvation. Just the nightmare beginning again.