Chapter 5 - THE VELVET COAT
I didn’t take the stairs. I took the private elevator directly to the master wing, my gun drawn, the sapphire bracelet heavy in my pocket.
The doors slid open with a soft ding.
The master suite was a disaster of expensive clothes. Silk dresses and designer shoes were strewn across the bed.
Isabella stood by the vanity, wearing a lavish burgundy velvet coat I had bought for her in Milan. She was carefully snapping a pair of diamond earrings into her earlobes, humming a soft, cheerful tune.
She turned around. When she saw me standing there with a gun, her humming stopped, but her face didn't fall.
Instead, she offered a perfect, practiced smile.
“Roman, darling,” she purred, not breaking eye contact. “Why do you have a gun? You’re scaring me.”
“The act is over, Isabella,” I said, stepping fully into the room. “Victor is bleeding out on the garage floor. The bomb in the SUV has been disarmed. And my mother is wide awake.”
For the first time since I met her, Isabella’s mask cracked. A flicker of genuine shock crossed her beautiful features.
Then, she laughed. It was a cold, hollow sound that made my skin crawl.
“Well,” she sighed, turning back to the mirror to adjust her lipstick. “I always told Victor he was useless. I suppose I’ll just have to do this myself.”
“Do what?” I asked, keeping the gun leveled at her chest. “Shoot me? The police will find gunpowder residue on your velvet coat. You won't inherit a dime if you’re convicted of my murder.”
“I’m not going to shoot you, Roman,” she smiled, turning back to face me. “You’re going to shoot me.”
Before I could react, Isabella reached into the pocket of her velvet coat. She didn’t pull out a gun.
She pulled out a small, heavy iron key.
“Do you know what this opens, Roman?” she asked, dangling it from her finger.
I didn't answer.
“It opens the vault in the basement of my family’s estate in Colombia,” she said softly. “The vault where we keep the original documents. The ones proving that your father didn't build this empire. He stole it from my grandfather.”
“Lies,” I spat.
“Is it?” Isabella stepped closer, completely unafraid of the weapon in my hand. “Why do you think Clara, your real mother, was killed? She knew the truth. She was going to turn your father into the authorities to save her own skin. My family didn't kill her, Roman. Your father did.”
The room spun. My father murdered my biological mother?
“You’re trying to get inside my head,” I said, my grip on the gun tightening.
“I’m telling you the truth because it doesn't matter anymore,” Isabella smiled. “Because while you were busy playing hero in the garage, I made a phone call. Your loyal man, Marcus? He works for me. And he just intercepted your mother’s secondary extraction vehicle.”
My heart stopped. Marcus. The man I trusted without question. The man who had tracing Victor’s identity just hours ago.
He was playing both sides.
“Marcus is bringing the boy to me at the private airstrip,” Isabella checked her diamond watch. “If you shoot me now, my men at the hangar will put a bullet in Eli’s head. So, drop the gun, Roman. And let’s take a ride.”
I stared at her. The velvet coat, the diamonds, the beautiful, venomous smile.
I slowly lowered my gun.
She had won the chess match. But she didn’t know I wasn't playing chess anymore.
“Fine,” I said, tossing my gun onto the bed. “Take me to the airstrip.”
Isabella smiled triumphantly. She slipped the iron key back into her pocket and walked past me toward the door.
As she walked by, I smelled her perfume. Jasmine and vanilla. The smell of deception.
We walked out to the circular driveway. A sleek black town car was waiting, driven by one of Isabella’s loyal guards. We sat in the back seat in silence as the car sped toward the private airfield on the edge of the city.
My mind raced. Marcus was a traitor. Eli was in danger.
But as I stared at Isabella’s reflection in the window, I slid my hand into my pocket. My fingers brushed against the sapphire bracelet.
Clara’s bracelet. My real mother.
Isabella thought my father killed Clara. But my mother—the woman who raised me—had told me Clara was murdered by Isabella’s family.
Someone was lying.
“You look nervous, Roman,” Isabella mocked gently.
“Just thinking,” I said.
“About what?”
I pulled the sapphire bracelet out of my pocket and dangled it in the dim light of the car.
Isabella’s breath hitched. She reached for her own wrist, realizing it was missing.
“Thinking about how my father couldn't have killed Clara,” I said coldly. “Because if he did, he would have destroyed the evidence proving your family’s crimes. He wouldn't have hidden it inside her jewelry.”
Isabella’s eyes widened in sheer panic.
“Driver!” she screamed. “Pull over! Kill him!”
The driver slammed on the brakes, the car screeching to a halt on the deserted highway. He turned around, pulling a gun.
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But I was faster.
I didn't need my own gun. I grabbed the heavy velvet collar of Isabella’s coat, yanking her violently in front of me just as the driver fired.
