Page 422 of Rosetti Family New York
"I'm not staying behind," I say quietly, and the certainty in my voice surprises me. "If you leave me in a car while you go in there, you'll lose him. He'll have escape routes you haven't thought of. He always does."
Matteo's knuckles are white where they grip the steering wheel. "Bella—"
"He won't expect me." The words taste like metal. "He thinks I'm still his grateful niece. Still his perfect little puppet." I meet his eyes in the mirror, and something passes between us. Understanding. Recognition. "I'm the only one who can get close enough."
The SUV slows as we approach the warehouse district. Through the rain-streaked windows, I can see the compound Chase chose for his last stand. A hulking mass of rusted metal and broken windows, squatting beside the East River like a cancer. Drops leak through gaps in the roof, and graffiti covers every accessible surface.
It looks like the kind of place where everything ends.
"You're not bait," Matteo says, his voice rough with barely controlled emotion. "You're not expendable."
"No." I unbuckle my seatbelt, the click loud in the sudden silence. "I'm the blade."
The weight of the gun against my hip feels heavier as I step out into the storm. Water soaks through my hair immediately, turning the world into a blur of gray and black. Lightning splitsthe sky above the warehouse, illuminating the twisted metal and broken glass that crown its roof.
Dom and Leo move with military precision, their teams spreading out to surround the building. I observe Matteo check his weapon one final time, the silver coin nowhere to be seen. His hands are steady, professional. But when he looks at me, I see the boy who told me he loved me while thunder crashed around us.
I should say something. Should acknowledge that confession he threw at me like a lifeline three days ago. Should tell him that he's the only thing that's felt real in years of careful performance.
Instead, I walk toward the warehouse entrance, my footsteps silent on wet concrete.
The first gunshot explodes from somewhere inside the building as we reach the loading dock. Then chaos erupts everywhere at once. Dom's voice crackles through the comm: "Explosives disabled. We found the charges rigged to the support beams—twelve hostiles down when their own devices detonated early."
The trap Chase set to bury us all turned against him when Dom's demolition expert redirected the wiring. Muzzle flashes strobe through broken windows, turning the downpour into silver needles. Voices shout orders in multiple languages. The air fills with cordite and violence.
I stay low, following the route Dom mapped for us. Past overturned shipping containers, through a maze of rusted machinery that casts twisted shadows in the intermittent lightning. The gun in my hand feels foreign and familiar at the same time, muscle memory I can't place.
Something explodes nearby, and I'm thrown to the floor. Pain erupts through my knee, and I glance down to find my black pants torn. Then I hear Rafe's voice, sharp with pain and fury, echoing from somewhere above. "Motherfucker shot me!"
Crimson. Always crimson. Everyone I care about ends up bleeding.
I abandon the careful route and head for the stairs. The warehouse reeks of rust and motor oil, decades of decay settling into the concrete bones. My footsteps echo despite my efforts at silence, the sound swallowed by the cavernous space above.
The metal staircase groans under my weight as I climb toward the sound of voices. Storm water streams through gaps in the roof, making every surface slick and treacherous. On the second landing, I pause to listen, pressing myself against the cold metal railing. Two voices drift down from above. One familiar and cultured, speaking with easy confidence. The other rough with pain but unmistakably Rafe.
Chase has him.
The third floor is a maze of offices and storage rooms, most of them dark except for a pool of yellow light spilling from the far end of the corridor. I move toward it, my boots silent on the concrete now, knowing it's a trap, knowing Chase is orchestrating this final scene exactly as he wants it.
But he doesn't know I'm armed. Doesn't know I'm not the same frightened girl who used to apologize for existing.
The office door stands wide open. Chase Callahan sits behind a metal desk, perfectly composed despite the war raging below. His silver hair is immaculate, his suit unwrinkled. He might be hosting a board meeting instead of bleeding out his empire.
Rafe kneels on the concrete floor ten feet away, zip-tied to a support beam. Red seeps from a shoulder wound, staining his black shirt darker. But his eyes are alert, furious, and when he sees me in the doorway, they widen with warning.
"Ah, Isabella." Chase's voice carries the same gentle affection it always has. "Perfect timing. I was just explaining to Mr. Rosetti here how this all began."
I step into the room, keeping the gun hidden behind my back. The air smells like mold and machine grease, underlaid with the metallic scent of fresh wounds. "Uncle Chase."
"Do you know who this is?" He gestures toward Rafe with casual indifference. "Rafael Rosetti. The man who murdered your cousin Dale and started this entire unpleasant business. Though I suppose 'started' isn't quite accurate, is it?"
Rafe's jaw clenches, but he doesn't speak. Red drips steadily from his shoulder to the concrete floor.
"Actually," I say, my voice steady as glass, "I know exactly who he is. And I know exactly what Dale was."
"Do you?" Chase leans back in his chair, a predator savoring the moment before the kill. "Do you know that Dale was following my orders? Every dollar he skimmed, every doctored receipt, every creative accounting error—all of it planned."
The temperature in the room drops ten degrees. Rafe goes completely still, his dark eyes fixed on Chase with lethal intensity.
