Page 55 of Shattered Engagement

As I slide behind the wheel, my instincts scream danger for half a second before the first bullet shatters my passenger window.

I throw the car into reverse, ducking low as two more shots ping off the hood. Three men in black tactical gear emerge from the shadows, weapons raised. Giancarlo’s specialists—his cleanup crew.

I slam the gas, skidding backward down the street before yanking the wheel hard. The car spins, tires screeching against wet asphalt, and then I’m speeding away, bullets peppering the trunk.

“Fuck!” I slam my palm against the steering wheel. They found me too quickly, which means one thing: the diary didn’t just expose my identity. It revealed my safe houses, my plans—everything Isadora knew.

Everything I trusted her with.

I call Vittorio again, maneuvering through side streets at dangerous speeds.

“They’re onto the apartment,” I tell him, checking the rearview mirror for tails. “Maria’s location is compromised, too. We need to move faster.”

“Already on it. But there’s something else—the De Angelis estate is locked down. Triple security at every entrance.”

My stomach knots. “Isadora?”

Vittorio’s hesitation tells me everything I need to know.

“She’s gone,” he confirms. “No one’s seen her since the rehearsal dinner. Antonio is on a rampage, threatening to break the alliance if Giancarlo doesn’t produce her.”

“He thinks Giancarlo has her,” I mutter, mind racing through scenarios. “But if neither family has her...”

“Luca,” Vittorio concludes.

My half-brother. The golden son raised in luxury while I fought for scraps. The man whose bride I’ve claimed in ways he can never know. The thought of him touching Isadora—hurting her—sends murderous rage coursing through my veins.

“I’m heading back to the estate,” I decide, changing course. “If Antonio is mobilizing against Giancarlo, I need to be there.”

“That’s suicide,” Vittorio argues. “Your cover’s blown. You show up now, you’re walking into a trap.”

“I don’t have a choice,” I growl, pressing harder on the accelerator. “Isadora’s diary is somewhere out there. If Antonio learns I’m Stefano Calviño—”

“Then you’re dead from both sides,” Vittorio finishes. “At least wait for backup. I can have six men at the rendezvous point in twenty minutes.”

I don’t respond, my focus narrowing to a singular purpose: finding Isadora. The rain hammers against the roof of the car in rhythm with my pulse as I take back roads toward the De Angelis estate. Images of Isadora flash through my mind—her emerald eyes darkening with desire, her defiant tilt of chin when challenging me, the soft vulnerability in her voice when she whispered my real name against my skin.

Mine. The possessiveness startles me with its intensity.

The estate comes into view, and Vittorio’s assessment was spot on. Armed guards patrol the perimeter, their numbers tripled since I left. I abandon the car half a mile away, approaching on foot through the dense wooded area that borders the property’s east side.

Twenty years of operating as a ghost has its advantages. I slip past two patrol units, scaling the stone wall at a point where the security cameras have a three-second blind spot. Once inside the grounds, I make my way to the servants’ entrance—a route I memorized my first day on the property.

The kitchen is deserted this time of night. I move silently through service corridors, avoiding the main hallways where guards will be stationed. My destination is Isadora’s room—the last place she was seen. If there are clues to her whereabouts, they’ll be there.

I’m halfway up the back staircase when I hear hushed voices approaching. Pressing myself into an alcove, I watch as two of Antonio’s men pass, their conversation drifting back to me.

“—called off the wedding. Calviño gone too far this time.”

“You think they really took her?”

“Who else? Luca disappeared right after she did. Convenient, isn’t it?”

They turn the corner, their voices fading, but the information burns in my brain. The wedding’s called off. Luca’s missing too. This isn’t just about my exposed identity anymore.

I reach Isadora’s room without further encounters. The door is ajar, evidence of a hasty search already conducted. Inside, the space feels violated—drawers emptied, closet ransacked, bedding torn apart. They were looking for something specific. More evidence, perhaps. Or just answers.

I systematically scan the room, checking all the hiding places a woman like Isadora would use for any clue about where she might be, hoping against hope that she left on her own. Nothing is in the false bottom of her jewelry box, nothing is taped behind the mirror, and nothing is beneath the loose floorboard I identified days ago.

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