Chapter 2: No room for weakness

The night was thick with tension, the sharp scent of gunpowder and blood hanging in the air like a cruel reminder of Isabella Rosetti's predicament. She crouched behind a stack of metal crates, her breathing shallow, her muscles aching from the relentless chase. Her body screamed in protest—her right arm was slick with blood, the wound stinging every time she moved.

The mission had gone horribly wrong.

Luca Moretti's men had the upper hand, pinning her down in a warehouse on the outskirts of the city. She had been reckless. Normally, Isabella was careful, methodical—but exhaustion had dulled her reflexes, and now, one misstep had her cornered.

The realization sent a wave of frustration crashing through her. This shouldn't be happening. She had been trained for moments like this. She was a Rosetti, for god's sake. But tonight, her body refused to keep up with her mind.

A scuffling sound made her tense. She gripped her knife tighter, pressing her back against the cold concrete.

The scent of gunpowder and blood clung to the night air, thick and suffocating. The Rossi family had walked straight into a trap—one Isabella should have seen coming.

Now, she was cornered.

Her breaths came in slow, measured gasps as she pressed her back against the cold steel of a cargo container. Her ribs ached from the last hit. A graze on her arm burned from where a bullet had barely missed.

Around her, Moretti men moved like sharks circling wounded prey.

"One mistake and I'm dead."

She wiped the sweat from her brow, forcing herself to remain calm. This wasn't the first time she'd been outnumbered.

But this time, something was different.

This time, she was running out of options.

Through the haze of the fight, she caught sight of a figure standing at the back, near the blacked-out SUVs that blocked their only exit.

He didn't fight.

He didn't give orders.

He simply watched.

And that told Isabella everything she needed to know.

"That's the leader."

The way his men moved with confidence, the way no one dared approach him—he was in charge.

If she could get past him, she might have a chance.

Ignoring the searing pain in her ribs, she prepared to move.

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One of the men moved forward, gun aimed. "Surrender, Roseii. There's nowhere left to run."

Isabella's lips curled into a bitter smirk. "Then shoot."

The second the man's finger twitched on the trigger, Isabella moved.

With the last of her strength, she lunged forward, twisting the gun out of his hands, slamming the butt of her knife against his temple. He crumpled instantly.

She didn't hesitate.

Ignoring the sharp pain that tore through her shoulder, she ran.

Bullets ricocheted off the metal beams around her, the deafening sound blending into the chaos of shouts and curses. Her vision blurred from blood loss, but she forced herself forward. She couldn't stop. Not now.

Then, she saw him as she was the near end of that battleground. The Moreitti heir who was standing near the warehouse exit, watching her like a predator assessing its prey.

But then, her gaze finally landed on his face.

Her heart stopped

Luca.

Her mind reeled, pieces snapping into place too fast, too brutally.

"Luca...

Moretti?"

"The son of the Moretti crime family. The man I once—"

The black-haired man standing before her wasn't just the leader of the men hunting her. He was him.

The boy she had once known. The boy who had once held her heart in the palm of his hands.

Their eyes met through for a brief moment.

Just for a second.

And Isabella saw the no emotion in his eyes.

He let his men try to kill her.

And that told her everything she needed to know.

The Luca she had known was gone.Whatever they had once been—it didn't matter anymore.

A sharp, agonizing pain shot through her chest—one that had nothing to do with her wound.

No.

She couldn't afford to think like that.

The past was dead.

And right now, he was just another enemy

Her fingers clenched around the hilt of her knife.

Because in this world, there was no room for hesitation. Hesitation meant death. And she would not be the one to die tonight.

Forcing down everything—the memories, the ache, the doubt—she focused only on her escape.

With a final burst of strength, she moved.

A quick step, a feint, a bullet to the knee of the closest Moretti soldier.

The man collapsed, screaming

A second shot to the above—shattering the bulb, plunging the area into the darkness.

She turned sharply, pushing through the doors and into the cold night air.

Her steps faltered—she was losing too much blood. The city lights blurred, her heart pounding erratically against her ribs. Her body ached, but her heart ached worse.

She hadn't just left behind a battlefield. She had left behind a part of herself.

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The alley behind the warehouse was silent, except for the stutter of her ragged breath and the distant whine of sirens. Each step felt heavier than the last. The world tilted, and for a second, Isabella saw double—two flickering streetlights, two bleeding arms, two ghosts from a past she had buried long ago.

Luca Moretti.

His name echoed through her skull like a bullet ricocheting in an empty chamber. She hadn’t seen him in five years.

A jolt of pain brought her crashing back to the present. Her arm—she needed to stop the bleeding. She stumbled toward a shadowed alcove between two dumpsters, dropped to one knee, and fumbled with her belt. Tearing off a strip of fabric with her teeth, she tied it around her bicep and cinched it tight. Her vision swam, black dots encroaching from the edges.

She couldn’t pass out. Not here. Not now.

Not with Luca’s men still scouring the area.

She reached into her pocket, pulling out a small burner phone. The screen was cracked, blood smeared across it. Only one bar of signal. One contact.

She hit call.

A single ring. Then another.

And then—“Isabella?”

Lorenzo’s voice was the anchor she needed.

“I’m compromised,” she rasped. “North sector... old harbor warehouse...”

“Christ. You’re bleeding—”

“I know.”

“Hold tight. Ten minutes. I’m coming in hot.”

The line went dead. She let the phone fall to the ground, chest heaving.

Ten minutes.

It might as well be a lifetime.

Isabella pressed her back against the brick wall, sliding down until she was sitting on the damp concrete. She tilted her head back, letting the cold seep into her bones. Her eyes drifted upward, toward the stars barely visible through the city haze.

What had she expected? That Luca would be different? That the boy who once stole kisses behind cathedral ruins would defy the legacy written in blood across his family name?

She had been a fool.

A fool who now had a bullet graze and three broken ribs as penance.

A noise snapped her eyes open.

Boots on pavement.

Too close.

She pushed herself to her feet, gritting her teeth against the pain. A shadow rounded the corner of the alley, gun raised.

She didn’t think.

She lunged forward, driving her knee into his gut and grabbing his wrist. They grappled in silence, the man grunting as he tried to overpower her, but Isabella was faster, meaner. She slammed his head into the wall once, twice, until he went limp in her arms. She let him fall.

Footsteps. More of them.

Too many.

She sprinted into the alley, ducking behind a parked delivery van just as the second wave rounded the corner.

“There!” one of them shouted. Muzzle flashes sparked in the dark.

She dove to the ground, the bullets chewing up concrete inches from her face. With the last of her energy, she rolled beneath the van and came up on the other side, dragging herself behind a trash bin.

“Split up! She couldn’t have gone far!”

Their voices grew faint as they fanned out.

She had seconds.

Lorenzo wasn’t here yet.

And then—a low hum. Tires on asphalt.

Headlights turned the corner, a black muscle car gliding to a stop just beyond the alley. The passenger door burst open.

“ISA!” Lorenzo’s voice again. “MOVE!”

She didn’t think.

She ran.

Her legs screamed in protest, lungs burning, the world spinning—but she kept going. She threw herself into the car, collapsing across the seat.

Lorenzo didn’t wait. The tires screamed as he hit the gas, and the city blurred past them in streaks of neon and shadow.

“Jesus,” he muttered, glancing at her bloodied frame. “What the hell happened?”

“Moretti,” she whispered, eyes fluttering shut.

The words hung in the air like a curse.