pte

lt Slamme

. He left the house early every morning, his suits crisp and his face expressionless. Isabella wondered if the man she loved had vanished or simply folded himself away for good as she watched from the upstairs window, clutching a mug she no longer drank from. At night, his study remained lit

confronted her, his withdrawal was sufficient. Once protective, his instincts are now defensive. He was shielding himself from her as well as danger. She started to notice small clues like cars that sat idle for too lo

d looking at her. The way he walked past her as if touch would burn. Ther

cked. With a clenched jaw and dark eyes, Marcus silently entered. He did not pay

red on the covers of international fashion magazines during the day. Sleek gowns, crimson lips, and eyes that burned with secrets-she was the face of elegance. Her fashion empir

stic dexterity, adaptive intelligence, and a coldness that unnerved even the most seasoned operatives. She could charm royalty, disarm guards, and vanish without a trace

rupt officials operating under the guise of international business. For the first time in her career, her orders ca

fat

she had n

ile in Section 8 was scrubbed clean of emotion-only facts remained. But now, the agency knew the truth: Isabelle wa

er models provided instruction to operatives, and her runway shows served as cover for intelligence exchanges. But as she slipped deeper into the

There were no overt declarations of blood, no recognition. But Isabelle felt it-a strange and hypnotic bond with her ancestors. As trained, she continued to be calculating, poised, and emotionally suppressed. But emotion

ith codes, couture, disguises, and dinners. She had always believed herself a weapon-disposable, e

hosted by Don Emilio himself. The agency had been waiting for this. Isabelle had been earning his trust for weeks, planting seeds, t

asked guests whispered secrets in five languages. Isabelle entered in a midnight-blue dress,

He said, with a thick Naples accent, "

. Wine flowed. The words moved. Then came the question, soft as velvet,

cover was airtight, but t

I know only what I need." "Blood

. "And what does y

o burned like fire. She gave me a daughter. But she vanished.

t. She wanted to scream. To ask why.

"To blood, whether it ru

ould be recorded by hidden cameras, according to the agency. But Isabelle, rattled an

r the guise of a textile investor, Isabelle's handler, a ruthless strategist named

mpromising

linch. "The opport

idn't send you here to pick your

bringing her closer to the syndicate's darkest corridors. She now knew who was behind the global operations of the syndicate

onversations, tested her responses. He followed her into the wine cellar one night and discovered

in her voice icy enough to freeze

s much longer. She would be killing the only link to her blood if she killed Emilio. If sh

in the conflict between memories and