Chapter 17 – Izzy Returns

The high-end lounge was a world apart from Dom's usual stomping grounds—a place where power simmered beneath cool exteriors and deals were struck with quiet precision. Dim lights cast soft shadows over polished wood tables, and the faint hum of hushed conversations filled the air like a symphony of secrets. The scent of expensive perfume lingered, mingling with the aroma of aged whiskey and cigars. This wasn't Dom's domain; it was Izzy's.

He entered cautiously, his presence unannounced but noticed nonetheless. Heads turned briefly before snapping back to their drinks, as if pretending they hadn't seen him. He spotted her immediately—Isabella "Izzy" DeLuca, sitting in a corner booth, perfectly composed. Her dark hair framed her face, sharp eyes scanning the room until they landed on him.

She didn't move, didn't smile, didn't acknowledge him openly. She simply waited.

As Dom approached, the weight of their shared history pressed down on him. Each step felt heavier than the last, but he masked it with his usual swagger. When he slid into the seat across from her, the atmosphere shifted subtly—like two magnets pushing against each other.

The sound of ice clinking in her glass broke the silence.

Finally, she spoke, her voice smooth but cutting. "I was wondering how long it would take before you crawled back."

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Dom smirked, though the expression didn't reach his eyes. "I don't crawl, Iz." 

Her lips curled faintly, a ghost of a smile that carried no warmth. "Then what do you call surviving?" 

"A long game," he countered, leaning back casually. His fingers tapped against the edge of the table—a small sign of unease hidden beneath nonchalance. 

"And what do you call losing everything?" she shot back, her tone measured but edged with steel. 

"A setback," he replied without hesitation. 

Their exchange crackled with tension, every word a blade aimed at the other's core. Izzy leaned forward slightly, her gaze unwavering. "You're playing dangerous games, Dom. Vinnie isn't some kid you can scare off with a few threats. He's built an empire while you've been hiding in the shadows."

"I'm not hiding anymore," Dom said, his voice dropping lower. "I'm fighting back."

"Against who? Yourself? Or the ghosts of your past?"

Her words hit hard, leaving a lingering ache in his chest. But Dom didn't flinch. Instead, he met her stare, letting the silence stretch between them.

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Izzy watched him closely, gauging his reaction. She knew him too well—the man behind the mask, the cracks beneath the armor. And she wanted answers.

"You walked away when I fell," Dom stated flatly, breaking the silence.

Izzy tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "And look where staying would've gotten me? Dead or worse."

Dom exhaled slowly, rubbing his jaw. "Fair point. Still doesn't change the fact you left me hanging."

"I did what was best for me," she replied, her tone firm. "Not everyone gets to play hero, Dom."

He chuckled bitterly, shaking his head. "Heroes don't exist in our world, Iz. Only survivors."

She raised an eyebrow. "Survivors who lose everything?"

"They come back stronger," Dom shot back, his voice carrying a note of conviction.

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Izzy sipped her drink, watching him over the rim of her glass. "You think this is about revenge?"

"What else would it be?" Dom asked, his tone laced with sarcasm.

"This city runs on more than just vengeance, Dom," she said softly. "It runs on strategy. On knowing when to strike—and when to walk away."

"So why are you here?" he pressed, leaning forward. "To lecture me? Or to see if I still have what it takes?"

She set her glass down carefully, meeting his gaze. "Both. And neither. Let's just say... I've been watching. Vinnie's weak links are showing. If someone doesn't step in soon, the whole thing could collapse."

"And you want me to clean up the mess?"

"No," Izzy corrected, her voice sharp. "I want to know if you're capable of finishing what you started."

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Dom reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper. Maps, names, addresses—all tied to Vinnie's weakest points. He slid it across the table toward her.

"This isn't charity," he said, his tone steady. "This is business."

Izzy picked up the paper, studying it closely. Her brow furrowed slightly as she pieced together the information.

"You've done your homework," she murmured, glancing up.

"I always do," Dom replied, lighting a cigarette. Smoke curled upward, filling the space between them. "But homework only gets you so far. You need someone who sees the board as clearly as I do."

Izzy exhaled sharply, setting the paper down. "And you think that person is me?"

"I know it is," Dom said confidently. "Without you, I'd still be stumbling around in the dark. With you... we might actually stand a chance."

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The conversation paused, the air thickening with unspoken truths. For a brief moment, the professional veneer slipped, revealing the raw edges of their history.

"You look tired, Dom," Izzy said suddenly, her voice softer now.

He froze, caught off guard by the observation. "You still care, Iz?"

A pause. Then: "I care about the game."

There was something in her tone—something deeper, older, more complicated than mere rivalry. They both remembered late nights planning moves, early mornings cleaning up blood, and the countless moments that had forged their bond.

After a beat of silence, Izzy finally leaned forward, lowering her voice. "If I do this, it's not for you. It's not about us."

"It's about winning," Dom finished for her, nodding slowly.

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Izzy laid down her terms, her voice crisp and clinical. "I work alone. I don't take orders. I don't answer to you."

Dom smirked, unsurprised. "Wouldn't expect anything less."

She continued, undeterred. "I pick my moves. You pick yours. We share intel, nothing more."

"And if our moves clash?" Dom asked, tilting his head slightly.

"Then may the better player win," Izzy replied, her grin sharp and dangerous.

They shook hands briefly, the gesture formal and devoid of warmth. As they parted ways, neither looked back—but the unspoken agreement hung in the air like smoke.

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As Dom stepped out of the lounge, the rain began to fall, washing away the remnants of the night's events. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed—a reminder that the city never slept.

Behind him, Izzy sat alone, tracing the rim of her empty glass with one finger. Her thoughts drifted to the map Dom had given her, to the risks involved, to the man sitting across from her just minutes ago.

Before leaving, she sent a text to an unknown number:

Message: Ricci's making moves. Don't underestimate him.

Back at his safehouse, Dom lit another cigarette, exhaling smoke into the dim light. He thought about Izzy—her sharp mind, her icy resolve, her ability to cut through bullshit faster than anyone else.

"She's back," Marco said, stepping into the room.

Dom nodded, his lips curling into a faint smirk. "Yeah. And things just got interesting."

Marco frowned. "Can you trust her?"

Dom exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling. "Trust? Nah. But she knows the game. And right now, that's enough."

Outside, the rain pounded against the windows, drowning out the distant hum of sirens. Inside, the chessboard had expanded, and Izzy DeLuca had claimed her square.

But in this game, pawns became queens—and kings fell.