Chapter 2: The Violation
The smell of turpentine usually calmed her. Today, it just mixed with the stale anxiety hanging in the loft. Izzy stood before an unfinished canvas, a chaotic splash of ochre and crimson, but all she could see was the phantom spread of blood on white silk. Three days. Three days of jumping at shadows, of robotic police interviews, of Gregory’s fawning, worried looks that screamed complicity. Three days of silence from Enzo Moretti.
She’d scrubbed her skin raw. The white dress was in a biohazard bag at the bottom of a dumpster three blocks over. The monogrammed handkerchief, however, sat on her battered drafting table, a crisp, white accusation. She hadn’t touched it since placing it there.
Her sanctuary felt like a holding cell. Afternoon light streamed through the large windows, painting golden rectangles on the floor cluttered with art books and half-carved wood blocks. This space was her mind made physical: vibrant, chaotic, fiercely independent. Now it felt surveilled.
The knock on her door wasn’t a knock. It was a series of precise, measured taps. Not a question. An announcement.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She knew, even before she peered through the peephole and saw the distortion of a dark suit filling the frame.
She considered not answering. A childish, futile fantasy. He’d find a way in. Or he’d simply wait, and the waiting would be worse.
She unlocked the door and pulled it open.
Enzo stood there, alone. He’d dispensed with Marco, or Marco was simply invisible. He wore a charcoal grey suit, no tie, the top button of his shirt undone. He looked like he’d stepped out of a boardroom, not the underworld. He took in her appearance—old jeans smeared with blue paint, a worn-out Smiths t-shirt, her hair piled in a messy bun—and his mouth quirked.
“Casual Friday,” he said, and stepped past her into the loft without invitation.
His presence was an immediate physical compression. The room shrunk. The scent of him—bergamot, clean wool, that underlying metallic tang—invaded, overpowering the turpentine and linseed oil. He moved with a predatory leisure, examining her space. His eyes scanned the canvases, the sculptures, the piles of records, the small kitchenette with its single chipped mug in the sink.
“It’s very you,” he observed, stopping to tilt his head at a particularly aggressive abstract piece. “Loud. Uncompromising. A bit messy.”
“What do you want, Enzo?” She kept the door open, a feeble symbol of his eventual departure.
“I wanted to see where you live. To understand the asset.” He picked up a small clay maquette she’d been working on, turning it over in his large hands. The contrast was obscene—his capable, violent fingers cradling the fragile, unfinished form. “The police are satisfied?”
“They bought it. The narrative was airtight. Just like you promised.” Her voice was flat.
“Good.” He set the sculpture down with surprising care. “Your first assignment. A minor authentication. A Dutch merchant believes he has a previously unknown Vermeer sketch. I need to know if it’s real before certain… negotiations proceed. You’ll examine it tomorrow.”
The mundanity of it was chilling. He was slotting her into his machine. “And if I refuse?”
He finally turned to look at her fully. The afternoon light caught the ice in his blue eyes. “We discussed consequences. This isn’t a refusal scenario, Isabella. This is a briefing.” He took a few steps toward her bedroom door, which was ajar, revealing the rumpled sheets of her bed. “But there’s another matter. Of trust.”
He pushed the door open and walked into her bedroom.
A violation so profound it stole her breath. She followed, a tremor of pure rage starting in her hands. “Get out of there.”
Her bedroom was smaller, more intimate. Books stacked on the floor, a vibrant kilim rug, her grandmother’s quilt on the bed. He stood in the center of it, making the space feel miniature. He was examining everything, absorbing the most private details of her life.
“Trust is built on transparency,” he said, his back to her. “On removing barriers. You are in my world now. There are no private rooms.”
“This is my home.” The tremor reached her voice.
He turned. “And I am in it. That’s the reality. Now, take off your clothes.”
The words hung in the air, simple and monstrous. They weren’t lascivious. They were clinical. An audit.
Izzy stared, her mind blank for a second, wiping everything clean except the raw, pounding signal of no. “You’re insane.”
“I’m thorough. I need to know you’re not recording this. That you have no wires, no devices. That you are, in this moment, entirely exposed and under my control. It’s a lesson. Take them off. Or I’ll have Marco do it.”
As if summoned, a shift in the light at the bedroom doorway announced Marco’s presence. He leaned against the frame, a silent, athletic silhouette, his dark eyes fixed on a point on the wall past her head. He was a tool, waiting for a command.
The air became thick, impossible to breathe. The two of them, here, in this space that smelled of her sleep and her lavender sachets. It was a calculated desecration.
“Go to hell,” she whispered, the fire igniting, burning through the fear.
Enzo’s expression didn’t change. He simply nodded to Marco.
Marco pushed off the doorframe and took one smooth step into the room.
That was the trigger.
Something in Izzy snapped. The coiled terror of the last three days, the image of Tim’s neck, the feel of the blood-soaked silk, the oppressive weight of this man’s will—it erupted.
She didn’t think.
As Marco reached for her, she moved. It wasn't martial arts. It was pure, feral instinct. She grabbed the nearest heavy object—a solid crystal bookend from her nightstand. She swung it in a tight, violent arc.
It connected with Marco’s temple with a sickening, solid thunk.
He grunted, a short, surprised exhale, and staggered back a step, his hand flying to his head. He wasn’t down, but he was dazed. The shock on his impassive face was more satisfying than anything she’d ever felt.
She didn’t stop. She dropped the bookend and launched herself at Enzo.
He’d been watching, an amused spectator. He wasn’t prepared for the whirlwind of sheer, unadulterated fury.
Her fist connected with his jaw. It hurt her knuckles, but the shock in his eyes was worth it. She shoved him, hard, both hands against his chest. “Get out! Get the fuck out of my house!”
He stumbled back, caught off-balance by the force of her charge, and landed seated on her bed. For a second, he just sat there, looking up at her, his hand to his jaw. Then he started to laugh.
It was a low, genuine rumble of amusement.
Marco had recovered, a trickle of blood weaving down from his hairline. His eyes were no longer blank; they held a deadly, focused chill. He took a step toward her, his body coiling.
“Marco,” Enzo said, the laughter subsiding into a wide, sharp smile. He stood up, slowly, wiping his mouth. “Leave us.”
Marco froze. He cut his eyes to Enzo, a silent question.
“Now. Wait in the car.”
For a heartbeat, Marco’s gaze lingered on Izzy, promising retribution. Then he turned, impeccably obedient, and walked out of the bedroom. They heard the front door of the loft open and shut.
Silence, except for Izzy’s ragged panting. Her chest heaved. Her knuckles throbbed. She stood her ground, every muscle vibrating.
Enzo took a step closer. She flinched, bracing for his retaliation.
He didn’t hit her. He reached out and gently, almost curiously, touched the reddening skin on his own jaw where she’d struck him. He winced, then the smirk returned.
“No one has laid a hand on me in ten years,” he said, his voice laced with what sounded like admiration. “Not one person. They’re too afraid of Marco. Or of what I’d do.” He dropped his hand. “You have no fear, do you? Not the useful kind. Just a… magnificent, self-destructive rage.”
“I want you to leave.” The words were gravel.
“I will,” he said, calmly. “The lesson is learned. A different one than I intended, but learned nonetheless.” He adjusted his suit jacket, his composure a wall she’d briefly cracked but not breached. “The authentication is tomorrow. Marco will pick you up at ten. Be ready.”
He walked past her, out of the bedroom, through her living space. He paused at the drafting table, picked up his monogrammed handkerchief, and tucked it neatly into his breast pocket.
At the open front door, he looked back. The golden light cut across his face, highlighting the faint red mark on his jaw—her mark.
“Oh, and Isabella?” he said. “Next time you assault a member of my family, make sure you finish the job. Half-measures are just insults.”
He left, pulling the door shut softly behind him.
Izzy stood, rooted in the center of her loft, the aftermath screaming in her ears. The silence was now a different kind of oppressive. She looked at the crystal bookend on the floor. She looked at the rumpled quilt on her bed where he’d sat.
She had drawn a line. She had fought back. And all she’d done was intrigue him more. The panic subsided, replaced by a colder, more terrifying understanding. She wasn't a prisoner in a cell. She was a specimen in a jar, and the lid was firmly screwed on. He was watching, not just to control, but to see what she would do next.
She walked to the sink, ran cold water over her aching knuckles, and watched it swirl down the drain, pink-tinged from Marco’s blood.
She walked to the sink, ran cold water over her aching knuckles, and watched it swirl down the drain, pink-tinged from Marco’s blood.
The adrenaline bled away, leaving a hollow, shaking fatigue. She slumped against the counter, her gaze drifting to the crystal bookend lying on the floor. A fine web of cracks now fractured its surface. She’d broken something. Maybe everything.
Sleep was a fractured series of images—the Bellini’s veiled eyes, Tim’s head lolling, Enzo’s smirk in the golden light of her bedroom. She woke at dawn, gritty-eyed and tense, the bruise on her knuckles a purple reminder. The loft felt different. The sanctuary had been breached. The vibrant colors seemed too loud, a defensive shout.
She made coffee, the ritual grounding her. The smell was familiar, a tiny anchor. She dressed with deliberate care: black trousers, a sleek grey sweater, boots with a low heel. Armor. She pulled her auburn hair into a severe knot. The woman in the mirror looked pale, her green eyes shadowed but sharp.
At exactly 9:59, a text buzzed. A single word from an unknown number. Now.
She looked out the window. The black sedan was at the curb, idling like a panther. Marco stood beside the rear door, his posture relaxed but unmistakable. A small, white bandage was visible at his temple.
Gathering her bag and a practiced mask of indifference, she walked out. The morning air was crisp, too bright. She didn’t look at him as she approached.
He opened the door. His dark eyes flicked to her bandaged hand, then away. “Rossi,” he said, a flat acknowledgment.
“Nice hat,” she said, sliding into the back seat. She was surprised by her own voice, the casual cruelty of it.
He didn’t react. He closed the door with a soft thunk and got into the driver’s seat. The partition was up this time. The car pulled into traffic with its usual ghostly silence.
They didn’t speak. The silence was a tangible thing, charged with the memory of her swing, the crack of crystal on bone. She watched the city blur past, wondering where you go to authenticate a painting for a criminal. Somewhere without witnesses.
They drove to the Meatpacking District, pulling into the loading bay of a converted warehouse with a discreet gallery name on the plaque. Marco led her inside through a service entrance, his shoes echoing on polished concrete.
The space was vast, white, and echoingly empty except for a single antique desk and a high-backed chair. On the desk, under a focused LED lamp, sat a small, grimy panel in an ornate frame. Enzo leaned against the desk, studying it.
He looked up as they entered. His eyes found hers, then dropped to her hand. The faint bruise on his jaw was just visible, a shadow she felt a vicious pride in seeing.
“Right on time,” he said. “Marco, give us the room.”
Marco vanished, melting into the periphery as if he were part of the ventilation system.
Enzo gestured to the panel. “The purported Vermeer. The merchant is… enthusiastic. I need your eye.”
Izzy approached, setting her bag down. She didn’t look at him. She looked at the painting. It was a domestic scene, a woman reading a letter by a window. The light was wrong. Immediately, instinctively, she knew.
She pulled a loupe from her bag, leaning in. The smell of old varnish and dust filled her nose. She examined the crackle pattern in the paint, the brushwork, the underpainting visible in a tiny, abraded corner.
“It’s a fake,” she said, straightening up after a few minutes. Her voice was professional, detached. “A very good one. Late 19th century, probably. The craquelure is forced. The lapis lazuli here is ground too finely for the period. They used modern synthetic ultramarine and tried to age it.”
Enzo listened, watching her face more than the painting. “You’re certain.”
“I’m certain. It’s beautiful, but it’s a forgery. Worth maybe fifteen thousand for the craftsmanship, not the fifteen million he’s asking.”
A slow smile spread across his face. It wasn’t friendly. It was the smile of a man whose calculation had just been confirmed. “Good. That’s what I thought. But I needed you to verify it.”
“Why? If you knew?”
“To see if you’d lie. To see if you’d try to inflate its value, hoping for a bigger cut, or to sabotage the deal somehow.” He pushed off the desk, standing close to her. She could smell his cologne, see the exact shade of blue in his irises. “You passed.”
“It wasn’t a test. It was a job.” She refused to back up.
“Everything is a test.” He picked up the small panel, handling it with a casual disregard that made her curator’s soul wince. “Now I can politely decline the purchase. Or perhaps, let the negotiation proceed… differently. Your expertise has weight. It has value to me.”
He set the fake Vermeer down and turned fully to her. “The next job is bigger. A collection coming up for auction in Monaco. I want specific pieces. You will go, you will bid on behalf of a shell corporation I own, and you will win.”
“I’m not a licensed bidder for some offshore entity.”
“You will be by Friday. The paperwork is handled. You’ll have a budget. Exceed it, and there will be… discussions.” His tone was light, almost conversational. “Do this well, and your father’s new treatment protocol begins next week. The one his doctors said was ‘not economically viable.’”
The quid pro quo was a hammer, wrapped in velvet. She saw the timeline of her life stretching out, each milestone purchased with her complicity. She felt sick.
“And if I say no to Monaco?”
He reached out, his fingers brushing the tight knot of her hair. She froze. “Then I sell the gallery’s debt to a competitor of Gregory’s. A man with less patience for failing businesses. And I withdraw my recommendation for your father’s charitable care. You can say no, Isabella. But you won’t.”
His hand dropped. “Marco will drive you home. We’ll talk next week.”
He walked away, toward a side door, the fake masterpiece forgotten on the desk. Izzy stood alone in the vast, white silence, the weight of the new chain settling onto her shoulders. It was expertly fitted. She had helped forge it herself.
Marco appeared soundlessly at her elbow. He didn’t speak. He just waited.
She picked up her bag, her movements automatic. She followed him back to the car, the daylight feeling harsher, more exposing, than before.
She followed him back to the car, the daylight feeling harsher, more exposing, than before. The silence in the vehicle was a thick, particulate thing. She watched the back of Marco’s head, the crisp line of his haircut, the small, stark white bandage at his temple. Her knuckle still throbbed in time with her heartbeat. The memory of the crystal bookend connecting, that solid, awful thunk, played on a loop behind her eyes. It mixed with the older memory of his gloves, stained and wiping.
“The bandage is new,” she said, the words out before she could cage them. Her voice sounded strange in the quiet.
He didn’t answer. His eyes found hers in the rearview for a fractured second, then returned to the road. His expression was, as ever, unreadable. But the silence wasn’t empty. It was full of the thing she had done.
The car turned onto the bridge, the river a sheet of hammered steel below. The city ahead looked like a painted backdrop, unreal and distant. Her apartment, her messy sanctuary, was a crime scene she had to return to. He was just a functionary, a part of the machine. But she had aimed her fury at the closest cog, and it had been him. The truth, acid and unwelcome, seeped in: she hadn’t been fighting a monster in that moment. She’d been fighting a man doing his job, and she’d done it with the blind terror of a cornered animal.
“I shouldn’t have hit you,” she said. The admission scraped her throat raw. It wasn’t soft. It was direct, almost harsh. “With the bookend. That was… it was wrong. I’m sorry.”
Marco’s hands tightened on the wheel, just a fraction. He didn’t speak for a long moment, the tires humming on the asphalt. When he did, his voice was low, measured, devoid of any emotion she could name. “You get one.”
She blinked. “What?”
“One free shot.” He glanced at her again in the mirror. This time his dark eyes held hers. “That was yours. We’re even.”
He said it like stating a simple, transactional fact. An accounting of violence settled. The absurdity of it—the reduction of her eruptive fury to a ledger entry—left her winded. Yet beneath the cold phrasing, she heard it. An acknowledgment. A line drawn. He wasn’t going to retaliate. Not for that.
“Even,” she repeated, tasting the word. It was a lie, of course. Nothing was even. She was drowning in debt to his boss. But this specific, personal score was, inexplicably, cleared.
He nodded once, a sharp dip of his chin. The conversation was over.
The car glided to the curb in front of her building. He didn’t get out to open her door this time. He just sat, waiting. She understood. The dynamic had subtly, irrevocably shifted. She had apologized. He had accepted, on his own terms. It wasn’t friendship. It was a bizarre, professional understanding etched in crystal and blood.
She got out, the city sounds rushing in. She didn’t look back as she walked to her door. But she felt the weight of the car idling there, and the new, fragile tension of the space between her and the shadow in the driver’s seat, a tension that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with a dreadful, complicated form of recognition.
But she felt the weight of the car idling there, and the new, fragile tension of the space between her and the shadow in the driver’s seat, a tension that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with a dreadful, complicated form of recognition. Then the car pulled away, its tires whispering on the asphalt, and she was left alone with the echo of his words. We’re even.
The loft was a tomb of her old life. She stood in the middle of it, the silence pounding in her ears. The cracked bookend was still on the floor. She picked it up, its weight familiar and wrong, and carried it to the trash. The clatter it made was final. She poured a whiskey, neat, and downed it in one burning gulp, but it didn’t touch the cold place inside.
Five days passed. The gallery was a minefield of sympathetic glances and hushed conversations about the “tragic robbery.” Gregory avoided her eyes, speaking only in bullet points about upcoming exhibits he knew she’d no longer care about. She moved through it all like a ghost, her mind a locked room where two facts sat on opposite chairs: her father’s smile during her hospital visit, brighter than she’d seen in years, and the feel of a man’s temple giving way under crystal.
Her phone buzzed on the sixth morning. An unknown number, a text. My office. 4 PM. Bring your passport.
Enzo’s office was in a nondescript financial district tower, all glass and steel and silent, expensive emptiness. Marco met her in the lobby. He gave a slight nod, the bandage gone, a faint yellowing bruise the only evidence. No words. He led her to a private elevator that opened directly into a sprawling corner space.
It wasn’t what she expected. No oak paneling or lurid Renaissance copies. It was minimalist, almost austere. A wall of glass looked out over the river. A massive steel desk held nothing but a single laptop and a small, exquisite Han dynasty horse. Enzo stood at the window, his back to her.
“Sit,” he said, without turning.
She sat in a leather chair that felt like sinking. Marco took a position by the door, a statue in a tailored suit.
Enzo finally turned. He looked rested, the bruise on his jaw faded to nothing. His eyes were appraising. “The merchant with the Vermeer was understanding. Thanks to your expertise, a potential financial embarrassment was avoided. My colleagues were impressed.”
“I’m thrilled for your colleagues.”
A flicker of amusement. “Monaco. The auction catalogue.” He gestured to a thick binder on the desk before her. “Three lots. I’ve tabbed them. Your only job is to acquire them. The budget for all three is listed on the inner cover. You will not exceed it. You will not draw attention. You will win.”
She didn’t open the binder. “And my father?”
“The new treatment began yesterday. As agreed.” He leaned against the desk, looming over her. “This isn’t a negotiation, Isabella. It’s logistics. You’ll fly out Monday. Marco accompanies you. He handles security, transport, the financial transfers. You handle the art. You are the face of a very bored, very wealthy heiress from a minor European principality. Invent a backstory. Make it believable.”
Her skin prickled. “Marco comes with me?”
“He goes where I go. And in this, you are me.” He pushed off the desk. “This is a significant step. A show of trust on my part. Do you understand the value of that?”
“I understand the cost of refusing it.”
“Smart girl.” He walked to the door, pausing beside Marco. “Get her everything she needs. She has forty-eight hours to decide what that is.” He left, the door sighing shut behind him.
Marco stepped forward. “Passport.”
She handed it over. He flipped through it, then pulled an envelope from his jacket, sliding out a new, pristine passport and a first-class plane ticket. The name was different. Isabelle Roche. Her photo stared back, looking terrified. “When did you…”
“The day after the gallery.” His voice was matter-of-fact. “Credit cards, driver’s license, they’re in the envelope. Use them for anything trip-related. Clothes. Whatever.”
She stared at the fake documents, a whole new identity spawned from the old bloodstain. “And you? What’s your cover?”
“I’m your security. They won’t ask more than that.” He handed her back her real passport. “Keep that safe. You’ll need it to come home.”
The word home struck her as tragically funny. She looked from the fake passport to his impassive face. “This is really happening.”
“Yes.”
“And if I walk out of here and go straight to the FBI?”
He didn’t blink. “Then your father’s miraculous recovery ends tomorrow. And Gregory’s gallery faces a series of irrefutable tax and provenance scandals I’ve prepared. And you will be arrested for fraud relating to the authentication documents you signed for the Vermeer last week.” He paused, letting it settle. “You signed them without reading. A mistake.”
A cold void opened in her stomach. She had signed. In the white room, after she’d given her verdict, he’d slid a single page over. She’d scrawled her name, wanting only to leave. The trap was so simple, so obvious.
She picked up the auction binder, her fingers numb. The listed budget was a number so large it felt imaginary. She flipped to the tabbed pages. A Modigliani portrait, a set of Celtic gold torcs, a small, unsettling Goya etching. Their estimates danced at the edge of the budget Enzo had set. It would be tight. It would require perfect, nerve-fraying execution.
This was the test. Not of her eye, but of her will. Of her ability to become Isabelle Roche, to sit in a room of the world’s elite and launder ambition and violence into culture. To let Marco, the shadow who knew the taste of her fear and her fury, stand behind her chair.
She looked out the wall of glass at the steel-and-glass city. Her old life was down there, tiny and receding. The loft, the turpentine, the defiant chaos—it was already a museum piece. This clean, cold room was her new reality. The fake passport was heavier than it should be.
“I’ll need evening wear,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady. “Something bold but not memorable. Auction houses are theaters. I need a costume.”
Marco nodded, a businesslike dip of his chin. “I’ll arrange a personal shopper at your apartment tomorrow.”
“No.” She stood, clutching the binder to her chest like a shield. “I’ll pick it. I know what works.” She met his eyes. “Tell him I’ll do it. Tell Enzo I accept Monaco.”
Marco held her gaze for a long moment, then pulled out his phone, his thumbs moving swiftly. A single text sent. He gave her another nod. “Done. The shopper will be available at your discretion. I’ll pick you up Monday at seven for the flight.”
She walked out, the new passport burning a hole in her bag. In the elevator, her reflection in the polished brass was a stranger—pale, contained, a sealed document. The descent felt like falling. She hit the lobby and the rush-hour crowd swallowed her, but their noise was muffled, behind glass. She was already somewhere else. She was already Isabelle.
She walked for blocks, not toward home, just moving. The late afternoon sun glinted off windshields, sharp and accusing. She stopped at a crossing, waiting for the light, and the full weight of it crashed down. The chasm between the person she was three weeks ago and the person holding a fake passport was absolute, and there was no bridge back. Only forward, into the glittering, gutless casino light of Monaco, with a shadow at her shoulder and a number in her head that was the price of her father’s breath.
The walk signal flashed. She stepped off the curb.
She stepped off the curb and merged with the current of strangers, her decision a hard, cold stone in her throat. She had said yes. The word was out in the world now, a transaction completed. I accept. It meant accepting the gowns, the pretense, the gilded cage of a hotel suite paid for with dirty money. It meant letting Marco, a man she had cracked open with a bookend, stand close enough to smell her perfume and hear the catch in her breath during a bidding war. It meant becoming, for all functional purposes, Enzo Moretti’s finely calibrated instrument.
She found herself outside her father’s clinic, looking up at the top-floor windows. The new, world-class facility. She didn’t go up. She just stood there, watching the glass reflect the bruising purple twilight, until her phone vibrated. A calendar invitation from an unknown address: Flight LX17, Private Departure Terminal B, 7:00 AM. Below it, another message. The budget is a ceiling. Not a suggestion. -E.
She put the phone away. She bought a cheap suitcase on the way home, something simple and nondescript. In her loft, she ignored the vibrant paintings leaning against the walls. They felt like artifacts. She opened her closet and surveyed her clothes—bold colors, avant-garde cuts, a uniform of artistic declaration. None of it would work for Isabelle Roche.
Isabelle would wear quiet, devastating expense. Neutral tones. Impeccable, unassuming fabric that whispered wealth rather than shouting it. Izzy packed a single personal item: the small, fired clay maquette Enzo had handled. It fit in the palm of her hand, a rough, angry shape. A talisman of what she was before.
The personal shopper arrived at ten the next morning, a sleek woman with a tablet and a rolling rack of garments. She called Izzy “Ms. Roche.” They selected a slate-grey cocktail dress, a cream pantsuit, a few pieces of minimalist jewelry. The woman didn’t ask questions. Her invoice was to a holding company Izzy had never heard of.
Marco arrived at seven on Monday morning exactly. He loaded her new suitcase into the trunk of the sedan. It was still dark out, the city a grid of sleepy lights. He held the car door for her. This time, she didn’t hesitate.
“Any questions?” he asked as they merged onto the expressway toward the private airfield.
“What’s the play if I’m outbid?”
“You won’t be.”
“But if I am?”
He was silent for a mile. “Then we re-evaluate. But the preference is for you to win. Cleanly. That’s why you’re here.”
The private terminal was a bubble of hushed efficiency. They bypassed everything, a stewardess leading them directly onto the tarmac where a sleek jet awaited, its engines a low whine. The steps were steep. Izzy climbed them, the morning wind cutting through her jacket.
Inside, it was all cream leather and polished wood. It smelled new. There was no one else. Marco stowed her bag and took a seat across the aisle, immediately pulling out a laptop, his attention sealed off.
She buckled herself in by a window. The sun was just cracking the horizon, a bloody line of orange. The engines pitched higher. The jet began to move, faster and faster, pressing her back into the seat. The city where she was born, where she built a life, fell away beneath them, shrinking into a dull, geometric pattern.
She was airborne. There was no metal tube around her, just a suspended moment of silent vibration. The ache in her chest was profound. It wasn’t fear for what was ahead. It was grief for what was already irretrievably behind, smeared like old paint beneath the ascending jet.
She looked across the aisle. Marco’s face was illuminated by the cool glow of his screen, his profile sharp, focused on a world of data and directives she couldn’t see. Her partner. Her warden. The only touchstone she had in this hollow, luxurious ascent.
Izzy closed her eyes, listening to the relentless, expensive scream of the engines carrying her toward the sea, the sun, and the pristine, predatory playground of the principality. The decision was made. The story of Isabella Rossi was, for now, closed. The performance of Isabelle Roche was all that remained.