The heavy doors of the study closed behind them with a muffled click. Lorenzo did not summon his men. He did not call Marco, his second-in-command, nor did he reach for the encrypted phone in his pocket that could mobilize forty armed soldiers within ten minutes.

Lorenzo scooped Isabella into his arms. She was terrifyingly light, like a bundle of dry sticks, but to him, she was heavier than the world itself. He carried her out of the warehouse, past the rusted tracks, and placed her gently in the back seat of the town car next to little Emma, who stared wide-eyed at the stranger with the sad eyes and the big black dog climbing in beside her.

"Drive to the safehouse on the coast," Lorenzo ordered himself, locking the partition. But instead of heading south toward the ocean, he pointed the vehicle back toward the Duca estate.

If there was a traitor in his house, running away wouldn't save them. He had to draw them out.

When the armored car rolled through the wrought-iron gates of the estate, Marta was waiting by the front steps, wringing her hands. But she wasn't alone. Standing beside her on the gravel driveway was Marco—Lorenzo’s right-hand man, captain of his security detail, and the man who had managed the estate accounts for the last ten years.

Marco’s eyes flicked to the rear doors of the car as Lorenzo stepped out. Something flickers across Marco’s face—a micro-expression of absolute panic before it was replaced by his usual stoic mask.

"Boss," Marco said, stepping forward, his hands resting casually near his shoulder holster. "We were worried. You shouldn't drive yourself out to the industrial district alone. It’s not safe."

Lorenzo closed the car door behind him with a dull, heavy thud. He didn't walk toward the house. He stood by the hood of the car, his posture dangerously relaxed.

"Isn't it, Marco?" Lorenzo asked softly.

Marco paused, sensing the invisible shift in the air. "Sir?"

"Six years ago, when Isabella's car went off the cliff, who cleared the vehicle for travel before she left the estate?" Lorenzo asked, his voice cutting through the crisp morning wind like a razor.

Marco’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. "That was Uncle Victor’s department, boss. You know that. I was just handling logistics."

"Right. Logistics," Lorenzo murmured. He took two slow steps forward. "You handled the logistics of her security detail. You knew every turn of that mountain road. And more importantly, Marco... you were the only other person in this entire compound who knew why Bruno’s collar was never replaced."

Marco’s hand twitched toward his holster.

"You didn't check the car, did you, Marco?" Lorenzo continued, his voice rising just enough to carry across the courtyard. "Uncle Victor gave the order, but you cut the brake lines. And when Isabella survived the initial impact and crawled out of the wreckage, you were the one who cleaned up the site before the state troopers arrived."