Chapter 4 - The Wolf in the Fold
Silas scrambled backward until his spine hit the base of the bookshelf, his eyes wide with sudden realization. “What are you talking about?”
Vincent tossed the encrypted phone onto his desk and picked up a secure landline. He punched a three-digit extension.
“Bring her in,” Vincent said into the receiver.
The heavy iron doors of the study swung open.
Lydia stood up from her chair, turning around to face the entrance. Her breath caught in her throat.
Stepping through the doorway, flanked by two armed guards, was a woman wearing an elegant, high-collared cashmere coat. Her dark hair was pinned back neatly, and her posture was radiating unshakeable poise.
It was Isabella.
She looked older, carrying the quiet, hardened resilience of a woman who had lived in exile for two years, but her eyes were burning with fierce intelligence.
Silas stared at her as if he were looking at a ghost risen from the grave. He let out a choked, panicked sound, clawing at the bookshelf behind him.
“No,” Silas whispered, shaking his head frantically. “No! I saw the car burn! I watched it go over the cliff!”
Isabella stopped five feet away from him, looking down at the traitor with absolute disdain.
“You watched a decoy car go over the cliff, Silas,” Isabella said, her voice smooth and chillingly composed. “You were so arrogant in your ambition that you never bothered to check who was actually behind the wheel. My security detail intercepted your sabotage three hours before the crash. We used your own logistics network to slip me out of the state while you celebrated your brilliant coup.”
Isabella turned her gaze toward Vincent. The hard exterior melted away instantly, replaced by a profound, tearful wave of emotion.
“Vincent,” she whispered.
Vincent crossed the room in two strides, pulling her into his arms with a desperation that had been starved for seven hundred and thirty days. He buried his face in her hair, his massive shoulders trembling slightly as the full weight of his grief finally shattered and washed away.
“I thought I lost you,” Vincent murmured against her neck, his arms locked around her as if letting go would make her vanish into smoke.
“You never lost me, my love,” Isabella said softly, resting her cheek against his chest. “I was just waiting for the right moment to come home. And I needed someone brave enough to open the door.”
Isabella looked past Vincent’s shoulder, her eyes locking onto Lydia, who stood quietly near the armchairs, watching the reunion with tears of relief pricking her own eyes.
Isabella gently pulled back from Vincent, walking over to Lydia and taking her calloused, work-roughened hands in her own.
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“Thank you, Lydia,” Isabella said with deep, genuine emotion. “You kept your promise.”
“I told you I would,” Lydia smiled, wiping a stray tear from her cheek. “Though serving champagne to a mafia boss while wearing a million-dollar necklace wasn’t exactly on my career checklist.”
