Chapter 8: Ashes of the Dawn

The alarms were a living thing, a shriek that tore through the marble halls and burrowed into my skull. I didn’t remember running, but suddenly I was in the grand foyer, the chandelier swinging overhead as men in black swarmed past me like a tide of hornets. Alessandro stood at the center, a pillar of ice in the chaos, issuing orders in that low, lethal voice that made the air itself feel heavier.

“Perimeter’s breached on the east side,” a soldier barked, clutching a radio. “They’ve got RPGs.”

Something inside me snapped. I grabbed Alessandro’s arm—his muscles were coiled tight as steel cables. “You knew,” I hissed. “You knew they were coming, and you didn’t warn me. You didn’t—“

He whirled, catching my chin between his thumb and forefinger. His eyes burned with a fire I’d never seen before—not cold, not detached, but alive with something feral. “I’m protecting you, Isabella. That’s all I’ve ever done.” He pressed his mouth to mine, hard and bruising, stealing the air from my lungs. When he pulled back, his lips were slick with my lipstick. “Now stay behind me.”

The world became gunfire and glass and the wet thud of bodies hitting the floor. I pressed my back to the marble column, watching him move like a ghost—every flick of his wrist sent another man crumpling. He was a symphony of violence, and I hated how beautiful it was. I hated how my heart hammered not from fear, but from wanting him.

It ended as quickly as it began. A whistle, a single shot, and the surviving attackers retreated into the night, leaving the courtyard littered with their dead. Alessandro stood among them, chest heaving, a streak of blood across his cheekbone. He turned to me, and for a moment, the mask slipped—I saw exhaustion, and beneath it, a hunger that had nothing to do with battle.

He crossed the room in three strides and kissed me again, deeper this time, his hands fisting in my hair. I should have pushed him away. I should have run. Instead, I kissed him back like I was drowning and he was air. He lifted me as if I weighed nothing, carrying me through the corridor to a door I’d never entered before—his private chambers.

The bed was cold silk and darker shadows. He laid me down with a gentleness that contradicted the blood on his knuckles, and when he whispered my name, it sounded like a prayer. I forgot the treaty. I forgot the dead. I forgot that my brother’s face was still burned into my memory. There was only Alessandro—his mouth on my throat, his hands mapping every curve, his voice telling me I was his, his, his.

I woke to pale morning light and the scent of his cologne on the pillow. My body ached in ways that made my cheeks flush, and I reached for him, wanting to trace the lines of his back—

But he was already gone. The sheets beside me were cold.

A scream tore through the silence. It wasn’t mine. It was a servant, her voice cracking as she burst through the door, her face ashen. “Signorina—you must come. Now.”

I threw on a robe, my legs unsteady, and followed her into the garden. The roses were still drenched with dew, but the fountain ran red. My brother lay crumpled at its base, his eyes open, his shirt soaked through with a single, precise bullet wound to the chest.

A knife pinned a piece of paper to the ground beside him. I knelt, my hands trembling, and tore it free.

*You thought you could hide her from me, De Luca. You thought the treaty meant something. She’s mine now—just like her brother’s blood. —The Viper*

The world tilted. I read it again. And again. But the words didn’t change.

Alessandro appeared at the edge of the garden, silhouetted against the rising sun. “Isabella—“

I held up the note, my voice a shattered thing. “You knew they were coming last night. You knew.” I stepped back as he approached, shaking my head. “Did you do this? Did you kill him to keep me?”

His jaw tightened. “I didn’t—“

“Then why is this here?” The paper crinkled in my fist. “Why is it *addressed to you*? Because he knew. The Viper knew you’d be here. Knew you’d keep me.” My vision blurred with tears and rage. “Was I the prize all along, Alessandro? Was my brother just a pawn to get to me?”

He said nothing. And that silence was louder than any confession.

I heard the roar of engines from the drive—not his men, but mine. My father’s soldiers. They’d come for me, finally. And I knew, in that moment, that everything I’d given him last night meant nothing. Or maybe it meant everything, and that was the worst part.

“If you didn’t do this,” I whispered, backing toward the gate, “then find who did. But don’t you dare follow me. Not until I know the truth.”

I turned and ran, leaving him standing over my brother’s body, the morning sun painting them both in gold and blood.