Chapter 7 A Raging Storm

• The city did not sleep.
• Not when Luca Moretti prowled.
• Engines wailed through alleys, Moretti enforcers in black shredding streets, warehouses, clubs, where Russo might be in hiding. Doors ripped from hinges. Informants yanked from the shadows. The entire underworld trembled with Luca's rage.
• Driving his vehicle, he paced back and forth like a caged beast, phone to his ear.
• "Where is she?" he bellowed. "No excuses, FIND HER."
• He threw the phone on the other side of the room from him, his vision clearing, his fingers trembling with anger. The vision of Isabella alone, shaking, in his enemy's clutches, ripped at his chest like a demon. Every second is an eternity.
• "I swear on every piece of work I've ever made," he growled, "if he puts one finger on her!"
• Somewhere on the outskirts of the city.
• An empty warehouse stared blankly into the tempest. Russo paced beside Isabella like a hunting bird. Her wrists were bound. Her eyes, fear and fatigue-glazed, tracked every motion.
• She shrank away as he returned with a glass held in his hand, amber liquid sloshing.
• "You are tensed," he smiled. "This'll unwind you. Take the edge off a bit."
• "No," she gasped, voice cracking. "Please….".
• But he pressed his hand across her mouth and prodded the glass against her lips. The fiery bitterness of the alcohol seared her throat and she was wracked by a cough.
• "There we go,"
• "Now we get to have a little… fun."
• He crept in close, hand on her thigh, hot breath on her skin. She whined, fighting, shivering body.
• "Don't struggle," he snarled. "You're his weak point now. That makes you mine."
• The Door Blown Apart.
• Luca.
• Rain-soaked, his blazing red eyes, he walked like a fury. No words. No warning.
• Gun. Raised arm.
• Seventeen shots were aimed into Russo's chest.
• Thunder boomed through the warehouse louder than the storm outside. Russo's body jerked and twitched with each shot before falling to the floor in a puddle of blood and defeat.
• Smoke curled. Luca didn't even glance at the body. He kept his gaze fixed on Carlo.
• He marched across the room in one lightning-fast movement, shedding his jacket and wrapping it around Isabella's shoulders.
• She blinked up at him, whiskey-laced with terror. "L-Luca…"
• Her voice broke. "You came…"
• His jaw tightened. "Always."
• And then he swept her up—gently, as if she were delicate glass—and carried her away from hell.
• Back at the Penthouse
• Isabella sat curled on the couch, Luca’s jacket still wrapped around her. Her eyes, glossy and distant, stared into nothing.
• He crouched in front of her, reaching out to touch her wrist. She flinched—then recognized him.
• “You’re safe now,” he said quietly.
• Her eyes overflowed. A sob escaped her lips, and in a moment she threw herself at him, arms around his neck. Her face against his chest, tears soaking his shirt.
• "I thought… I thought he'd—" She was almost out of voice.
• "I know." His was raw, a deep growl. "But he didn't. He won't."
• She was holding on to him, trembling all over. "You saved me…"
• His hand lingered at the small of her back, but never touched. That tortured pain revived, the one he didn't know, didn't want.
• She leaned against him a fraction, cheeks flushed with too much to drink. "Luca…"
• Her fingertips floated across his jawline, gentle and inquiring. "You feel… warm."
• His eyes locked onto hers. "You're drunk," he replied flatly.
• She leaned further forward, lips open. "Don't leave…"
• He caught her wrist before she could creep another inch forward. "No."
• "But I...."
• "Not like this."
• His voice was firm but not unkind. He stood up, lifting her again carefully and laying her down on her bed.
• As he pulled the blanket over her, she, half-asleep, nearly whispered, "You make me feel safe…"
• He stood like a statue. His eyes softened for a moment.
• Then his mask came back down over them.
• He turned, left the room, and closed the door quietly behind him.
• Outside, the storm had spent itself. But inside Luca Moretti?
• The battle had just started.