Isabella Rossi's POV

The next day, I was taken to an abandoned chemical plant in the western suburbs.

The site was desolate—the perfect backdrop for a mafia hideout.

The script Lorenzo gave me was simple. I was to play a hostage kidnapped by a rival famiglia, awaiting rescue by the Santoro security team.

But I hadn't expected Elena to be there.

Dressed in a tactical vest, she stood beside Lorenzo, her voice cloyingly sweet. "Lorenzo, I want to take part in the drill too. I need to toughen up so I won't be a burden to you later."

To my surprise, Lorenzo actually agreed.

"Then stay by my side and don't wander off," he said softly. "The men playing the kidnappers are mercenaries from Sicanza. They're rough around the edges."

…

The drill began.

I was thrown into a shipping container, my hands zip-tied behind my back.

According to the plan, a "kidnapper" would set off smoke grenades ten minutes into the exercise to simulate a fire. Lorenzo's security team was supposed to breach the door and rescue me within five minutes.

But ten minutes passed.

What drifted in wasn't the hiss of smoke grenades, but the relentless crackle of a real inferno.

The stench of gasoline seeped through the cracks in the door. Black smoke billowed inside. The temperature soared, turning the container into a furnace.

Something was wrong.

This wasn't a smoke grenade. This was a real fire.

I struggled to the door, slamming my body against it.

I shouted for help.

"Open the door! There's a fire! A real fire!"

The door had been deadbolted from the outside. Through the cracks, I caught Elena's voice—no longer sweet, but wicked, ecstatic.

"Oh no! Did I lock it by mistake? Lorenzo… the keys… I think I dropped them into the fire."

Lorenzo's voice crackled over the intercom, cold and irritated. "Isabella, scream a little more convincingly. Your acting is pathetic."

The smoke stung my eyes until the tears streamed uncontrollably. I screamed into the mic with everything I had left. "Lorenzo, it's not a drill! It's a real fire! Elena locked the door. It's gasoline! Save me…"

The smoke filled my lungs, triggering a fit of coughing.

"Have you had your fill of acting yet?"

Lorenzo's voice extinguished my last spark of hope.

"Elena is too afraid to even kill a chicken. You think she'd lock the door and start a fire? Isabella, you'll tell any lie just to squeeze more money out of me, won't you?" he said coldly. "Since you love acting so much, stay in there a while longer. Let's see your breaking point."

Static hissed as he snapped the comms shut.

…

Flames licked the interior walls as the corrugated iron glowed red-hot.

I curled into the far corner, despair swallowing me whole.

He really did want me dead. Or worse—my life simply didn't matter to him at all.

I fumbled for my phone. The signal was flickering—weak and unstable.

I didn't bother calling for help; there was no time. Instead, I opened my bank app and transferred every cent I had earned from being a live target, killing that dog, and freezing in that pool to the hospital's account, noted as a surgical fee.

By the time I finished, my vision was fraying at the edges.

I pulled up my chat with Lorenzo. I wanted to tell him that I was terrified of fire.

Back then, every time the power went out, he was the first to rush to my side.

I wanted to tell him that I never abandoned him three years ago.

I wanted to tell him that I had once been pregnant, but the baby was kicked out of me in prison, and that I could never have another child again.

My fingers trembled over the screen, but in the end, I deleted every word of the truth. Instead, I typed one short line.

The screen flickered one last time—Message Sent—before going dark for good.

The text read, "Lorenzo, I'm returning the life I owed you today. The signet ring is at the auction house. The password is your birthday. From now on, we're even."

The phone slipped from my limp fingers, clattering onto the scorching metal floor.

Before darkness claimed me, I heard the metal screech as the container door warped in the heat—and then, a belated roar of agony.

Too bad. I didn't care anymore.