Chapter 2 - Glass and Blood
The conservatory was a Victorian greenhouse attached to the back of the Brooklyn mansion, filled with towering orchids, humid mist, and the sharp, earthy scent of damp soil. Rain lashed against the arched glass roof like a volley of miniature bullets.
Aleandro stepped inside, the suppressor of his Sig Sauer hidden beneath the tail of his charcoal overcoat.
Isabella stood by the central fountain. She wore an emerald silk dress that caught the dim amber glow of the hanging lanterns. Her dark hair was swept up in an intricate chignon, and her posture was as regal as any queen of the underworld. But as Aleandro approached, the reflection in the water showed a micro-tremor in her hands.
"You're late," Isabella said softly, not turning around. "Traffic on the bridge must be terrible."
"Not as terrible as the rats in my house," Aleandro said.
Isabella finally turned. Her face was a masterpiece of cool porcelain, but her eyes—those deep, haunting hazel eyes that had convinced him she was an innocent victim of a mob war—flashed with a sudden, dangerous realization. Her gaze dropped to his right hand, heavily pocketed.
"You found it," she breathed.
"Every word spoken in my study for the past three weeks," Aleandro said, closing the distance between them until he could smell her perfume—jasmine laced with cold copper. "Every strategy against the docks. Every name of my captains. You gave it all to your father. Why, Isabella? Was the Moretti ring not heavy enough for your finger?"
Isabella let out a bitter, low laugh that echoed over the gentle splashing of the fountain. She stepped closer, defying the gun in his pocket.
"Power, Aleandro? Do you really think I care about shipping containers and blood money?" She looked up at him, her chest heaving. "My father didn't buy me. He didn't trade me to you. I volunteered to be your Trojan horse. Because twenty-two years ago, your father killed my mother in a car bomb meant for my uncle, and you walked away clean."
Aleandro’s breath hitched. A dark memory stabbed through his mind—a fiery wreck on the Queensboro Bridge, a cold winter night, a debt left unpaid.
"My father was a soldier, not a monster," Aleandro growled.
"He was a butcher," Isabella hissed, stepping back as a shadow detached itself from the canopy of the orchids behind her.
A click echoed through the humid air.
Aleandro’s instincts screamed. He whipped his hand out, bringing the Sig Sauer up, but a laser sight already painted a red dot dead-center on his chest.
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From the darkness stepped Marcus, his chief of security, holding a customized Glock aimed straight at Aleandro’s heart. Beside him stood three men wearing the crest of the Romano syndicate.
"Drop it, boss," Marcus said, his voice entirely devoid of emotion. "The house belongs to the Romano family now."
