She had smiled then, thinking he was being dramatic.

But the ledger was real.

Names. Payments. Alliances. Betrayals.

Enough secrets to collapse half the city.

Enough to turn friends into enemies overnight.

Luca forced his voice steady. “Did you tell them?”

“No,” Isabella whispered. “But they think I know where it is.”

The man returned to the line. “She knows more than you think.”

Luca’s jaw hardened. “You want the ledger.”

“I want justice.”

“Justice doesn’t hide behind my wife.”

“No,” the man said softly. “Justice waits until powerful men finally have something to lose.”

The line cut.

Declan cursed under his breath. “Boss, if they know about the ledger—”

“They don’t.”

“They know enough.”

Luca looked at him. “Then someone close told them.”

Declan went still.

In the rain-dark reflection of the window, Luca saw the same thought pass between them.

A traitor.

The cemetery gates appeared ahead, rusted and leaning, swallowed by fog. Old stone angels rose beyond them like pale watchers. The SUVs stopped with tires sliding on wet gravel.

Luca stepped out.

Rain ran down his face as his men spread into formation. Flashlights sliced through the darkness. The cemetery stretched before them, crowded with cracked tombs and crooked crosses, weeds twisting through stone like fingers.

Declan lifted his gun. “We sweep together.”

“No,” Luca said.

Declan stared. “Boss—”

“They want me.”

“They’ll kill you.”

Luca glanced toward the cemetery. “They have her.”

That was all he said.

He walked through the gates alone.

The cemetery smelled of rain, mud, and old stone. Thunder rolled over the city. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell rang once, though Luca knew no church nearby still worked.

His phone buzzed.

A message.

COME TO THE MAUSOLEUM.

Attached was a photo.

Isabella.

She was sitting against a stone wall, wrists tied in front of her, hair damp around her pale face. Her eyes were open, fixed on whoever had taken the picture. Terrified, yes—but not broken.

Never broken.

Luca’s throat tightened.

He walked faster.

The Rossi mausoleum stood at the heart of the cemetery, a black marble structure built by his grandfather, who believed even death should kneel to the family name. Its iron door was slightly open.

A warm light flickered inside.

Luca entered.

The air inside was colder than the rain.

Candles lined the floor. Their flames trembled as he stepped in. On the far wall, beneath carved names of dead Rossis, Isabella sat in a wooden chair.

Her eyes widened when she saw him.

“Luca,” she whispered.

He took one step toward her.

A gun clicked in the shadows.

“Stop.”

Luca stopped.

Three men emerged from behind the pillars. Masks covered their faces. Their weapons were steady. But Luca barely looked at them.

His eyes stayed on Isabella.

There was a bruise near her cheekbone. A cut at the corner of her lip. Her dress was torn at the hem and stained with mud. But she was breathing.

She was breathing.

The masked man in the center tilted his head. “Luca Rossi, alone at last.”

“Let her go.”

“Not yet.”

“You wanted me. I’m here.”

“Yes.” The man stepped closer. “But I wanted you afraid first.”

Luca’s gaze sharpened. “Take off the mask.”

The man laughed quietly. “Still giving orders.”

“Take it off.”

For a moment, only rain answered.

Then the man reached up and removed the mask.

Luca froze.

“Matteo.”

Matteo Vitale smiled sadly.

He had once been family in every way except blood. Luca’s childhood friend. His best man. The man who had stood beside him at the altar when Isabella walked toward them in white lace, smiling like she had not yet learned what men like Luca could become.

Matteo looked older now. Leaner. His eyes carried a grief Luca did not recognize.

“You look surprised,” Matteo said.

“You were dead.”

“I was useful dead.”

Isabella stared between them, confused and afraid. “Luca… who is he?”