Wicked Promises

The glass was cool against her forehead, but it did little to calm the storm inside her.

Isadora Langston stood at the towering window of her D.C. townhouse, her silhouette outlined by the bruised lavender of an approaching dusk. The city buzzed below-horns, sirens, camera flashes. But here, in her private prison above it all, everything was quiet. Too quiet.

She watched her reflection blend with the blurred skyline-half-girl, half-ghost.

"You should be packing." Her father's voice was flat behind her, as though he hadn't just signed away her life with a few whispered threats and classified reports.

She didn't turn. "You said I'd be safe here."

"Things have changed." His tone sharpened. "You were nearly killed last night. I will not have my daughter become a political casualty."

A bitter laugh caught in her throat. "Isn't that what I've always been?"

Senator Langston exhaled through his nose-controlled, irritated. The way he always got when she broke character. "You're not going to that charity gala next week. You're flying out tonight."

"Where?" She finally turned to face him, eyes sharp like shattered glass. "To another of your secret bunkers? Some Swiss villa with armed guards and no soul?"

His jaw tensed. "To Sicily."

Isadora blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You'll be under the protection of someone who owes me a favor."

"And who might that be? A crooked general? Another skeleton from your Cold War closet?"

The pause said everything.

"Luciano Moretti."

The name landed like a punch to the gut.

"You're sending me to a mafia heir?" Her voice cracked, outrage laced with disbelief. "Jesus Christ, Dad. He's a ghost story-mothers tell their children not to say his name out loud."

"He's the only one powerful enough to keep you alive. Don't be dramatic."

She crossed her arms, her body trembling-not with fear, but with fury. "Why now? Why him?"

He stepped closer, towering, still in his crisp suit, tie strangling his throat like his morals had years ago. "Because I'd rather have you in the lion's den with a lion I can control than buried six feet under with a bullet in your skull."

A beat of silence stretched between them, taut as piano wire.

"I'm not a pawn, Dad."

His eyes narrowed. "You've always been a piece on the board, Isadora. The only difference is, this time I'm trying to keep you alive."

Her heart hammered in her chest. She wanted to scream, to cry, to break every mirror in the house just so she wouldn't have to see her father's shadow in her face.

But instead, she nodded.

Because in the Langston house, survival always came before rebellion.

The jet was sleek, soulless. Leather seats, curt crew, sterile air. It could've flown her to heaven or hell and it wouldn't have made a difference.

She barely touched the champagne. Instead, she pressed her forehead to the oval window, watching the world fall away beneath her in clouds and chaos.

Luciano Moretti.

The name itself was smoke-whispered in political circles, feared in criminal ones. Rumors painted him as many things: assassin, billionaire, recluse. No one really knew where he was, until now. Her father had traded favors, old blood debts, and now she was the currency.

A whisper of a man she'd never met was about to become her shadow.

And maybe her executioner.

The car that picked her up in Sicily was black, armored, and driven by a man who didn't speak.

The drive stretched through winding hills and sleepy towns, past olive groves and estates tucked into the earth like secrets. Then came the gates-wrought iron, ancient and sprawling. The estate behind them looked like a relic of a forgotten empire. Marble, vines, too much silence.

Isadora's breath caught in her throat as the car stopped.

She stepped out. Sunlight cut across her bare arms like blades. The cicadas screamed in the distance.

And then he appeared.

Luciano Moretti stood at the top of the marble steps, a shadow in a linen shirt and black slacks, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His face-God, his face-was carved from storm clouds and stillness. Midnight hair, olive skin, eyes the color of sea glass-cold and unrelenting.

She met his gaze. And he looked through her like she was nothing.

No greeting. No smile.

Just silence.

He turned without a word and disappeared into the villa.

Isadora straightened her shoulders.

So this is the lion's den.

And she was no lamb.