Chapter 2 - THE DINNER OF JUDASThe chandelier in the main dining hall cast a cold, diamond-hard light over the twelve-seat mahogany table. Outside, the Brooklyn rain lashed against the tall leaded windows like a handful of gravel flung by an angry ghost.
Isabella sat at the opposite end of the table, cutting delicately into a rare steak. She looked radiant. A diamond pendant—a gift from Aleandro for their engagement anniversary—rested against her collarbone, catching the candlelight.
"You're quiet tonight, Aleandro," she said, her voice like velvet sliding over broken glass. She set her fork down and tilted her head with that practiced, intimate concern that had once made him feel safe from the cold. "Is the shipping route out of Rotterdam giving you trouble again?"
Aleandro swirled the dark red wine in his crystal glass, watching the crimson liquid climb the sides and fall back down.
"Not Rotterdam," Aleandro said smoothly. "The ports are clean. But I have a leak in the house, Isabella. Someone is letting the Sokolov family listen in on my business."
Isabella didn't flinch. Not a muscle in her face twitched. Her pulse point at her throat didn't even accelerate—he could see it clearly from across the table, steady and calm.
"That's terrible," she murmured, lowering her eyes with a masterclass of theatrical dismay. "You've always been so careful about who you let into your inner circle. Do you suspect Mateo? Or one of the new capos?"
"I suspect everyone," Aleandro said, locking his dark eyes onto hers. "Including the people who sit at my table. People who know where I keep my keys, my ledgers, and my memories."
Isabella met his gaze without a flicker of guilt. "If you think I have anything to hide, Aleandro, you only have to ask. You know you hold every key to my life."
A masterpiece, Aleandro thought bitterly. If he hadn't seen the footage with his own eyes, if a four-year-old child hadn't pointed a small, ink-stained finger at the clock, he would have surrendered his soul to this woman without a second thought.
"Of course, cara," Aleandro said, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I trust you implicitly."
Just then, the heavy dining room doors swung open. Mateo stepped inside, his boots tracking a small puddle of rainwater onto the marble floor. He looked grim, holding a heavy leather folio against his chest.
"Boss," Mateo said, ignoring protocol because the urgency in his voice overrode everything. "We just intercepted a transmission pinging from a repeater tower down on 4th Street. It's an encrypted data stream bouncing straight from an audio bug."
Isabella’s fork scraped loudly against her porcelain plate. For a fraction of a second—just a microsecond—her fingers tightened around the silver handle until her knuckles turned white.
"An audio bug?" Isabella asked, her voice maintaining its cool veneer, though it was fractionally thinner now. "In the house?"
"Not just in the house, Miss Romano," Mateo said, turning his cold, flat eyes toward her. "Inside the antique clock in the master study. The one only Mr. Moretti and his closest confidants ever approach."
The air in the room dropped ten degrees.
Aleandro stood up slowly, pushing his chair back with a soft scrape against the floor. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't draw the heavy Sig Sauer pistol resting in his shoulder holster. He simply walked around the long table until he was standing right behind Isabella’s chair.
"Isabella," Aleandro whispered, leaning down so his lips brushed the shell of her ear. "Do you know who carved that clock?"
Isabella sat frozen, her breath catching in her throat.
"My father," Aleandro continued, his voice dropping into a lethal, quiet register. "He died coughing up blood on a cot in a tenement apartment when I was seventeen. Every gear in that clock represents a drop of sweat he shed so I wouldn't have to die in the gutter. And you sold it to Valentin Sokolov for a handful of silver."
Isabella slowly stood up, turning to face him. The mask of the innocent bride had completely melted away, replaced by something hard, sharp, and feral.
"You think I did it for money?" she laughed, a bitter, jagged sound that echoed off the high ceilings. "You arrogant bastard, Aleandro. You slaughtered my brother in '25 over a territory dispute in Queens and made me sit across from you every night pretending I loved the man who put a bullet in his brain!"
Aleandro’s face hardened into stone. "Your brother was moving heroin into schools, Isabella. He broke the code."
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"And you broke my heart," she spat back, her eyes blazing with pure hatred. "So I broke yours."
With a sudden, violent movement, Isabella reached into her designer handbag resting on the floor, yanked out a heavy-caliber Glock, and jammed the barrel straight against Aleandro’s chest—exactly three inches from his heart.
