POV: ISABELLA
The car ride to Dimitri's office felt like a funeral procession.
Isabella sat in the back of the town car Marco had sent, watching the city lights blur past the tinted windows, her heart hammering against her ribs.
9 PM. Dimitri's office. Don't be late.
She'd changed outfits three times before settling on something that walked the line between respectful and defiant, a black dress, elegant but not seductive, with her hair pulled back in a severe chignon that made her look older. More serious.
More like someone who understood the gravity of the situation.
Which she did.
One wrong word tonight and she was dead.
Not banished. Not sent home in disgrace.
Dead.
The car pulled up to the building, a sleek tower of glass and steel in the financial district, the kind of building that screamed power and money and legitimate business.
But Isabella knew better.
This was Dimitri's empire. And nothing about the Devil was truly legitimate.
