Page 37 of The Scars We Keep
Isabella:When?
The response comes immediately.
The Devil:Now.
Of course it’s fucking now.
I dress in silence.Pull on boots with enough heel to make a statement but sturdy enough to run in if I need to.Hair scraped back into a sleek ponytail, not a strand out of place.Lips painted too red for a family visit, bold and defiant, but I don’t tone it down.Let him see I’m not the same young girl who used to sit outside his office waiting for approval that never came.
Let him fucking see what he made me into.
I examine my reflection once more.Cold.Composed.Unapproachable.
Perfect.
Four of Lorenzo’s men are close to the front door when I walk down the stairs.
One leans against the marble column with casual arrogance, tattooed arms crossed over his chest, watching me descend with dark, assessing eyes.I hate the way he looks at me, like I’m something he’d help himself to if Lorenzo wasn’t in the picture.His gaze drags over my body with predatory intent, starting at my legs, crawling up slowly, pausing at my tits where his tongue darts out to wet his lips.Then higher, to my mouth, my neck, back down again.Undressing me.Violating me with just his eyes.He doesn’t even try to hide it, doesn’t bother with subtlety or respect.Just stares like he’s got every right to.My stomach turns.My skin prickles with revulsion.Those eyes make me feel dirty, unsafe in my own house.
Another checks his weapon in full view of the staff, sliding the magazine out and back in with practiced ease, the metallic click echoing through the foyer.The other two stand shoulder to shoulder near the entrance, eyes forward, jaws set, muscles coiled and ready.They don’t speak.Don’t move except to track my approach.
I don’t ask names.I don’t need to, they’re Lorenzo’s men, not mine.
I move outside.
“We’re leaving,” I say flatly, not bothering to explain where or why.
They exchange glances but don’t question it.One of them pulls out his phone and makes a quick call.Within minutes, a black SUV pulls up from the garage.He opens the door while I slide into the back seat.
The four men pile into a second vehicle behind us.This is how it works in this world—no one travels alone.Every trip is a convoy, and every movement is calculated.
When we get to my father’s estate, nothing has changed.
Same iron gates.Same dead-eyed guards stationed at the entrance, with their hands resting near their weapons.The driver slows to a stop, window rolling down, but the guards don’t move or wave us through.
One of them steps forward, looking into the car with suspicion.
“State your business,” he says, flat and dismissive.
Anger flares hot in my chest.
“Are you fucking serious?”I lean forward so he can see my face clearly.“Open the fucking gate before I call my father and tell him his men are too stupid to recognize his own daughter.”
Recognition flickers across his face.Then fear.He quickly steps back, stammering an apology while waving frantically at the other guard.
The gates swing open with a slow, mechanical groan, as if even the machinery is reluctant let us in.
We roll in, tires crunching over the gravel driveway.Same blacked-out windows staring down from the main house like dead eyes.Same thick brick walls and manicured hedges, trying to convince the world they’re keeping people out when they’re really keeping everything in.
We pull up to the entrance, the SUV smoothly coming to a stop with a soft rumble.The driver turns off the engine and gets out first, then circles around to open my door as if I’m royalty instead of a pawn being moved between two would-be kings.
I step outside.The house looks the same as ever—cold and imposing, a monument to power built on blood and broken bones.The kind of place that absorbs light and spits out shadows.
The four De Luca men immediately flank me, forming a protective barrier that feels more like a cage.
My father’s men, stationed at every corner and corridor, watch with a cold assessment that makes my skin crawl.I know that feeling well.I grew up under it.Learnt to walk with my head high and my face blank because showing weakness here was like painting a target on my back.
Nothing has fucking changed.
