Chapter 166
Isabella Sinclair sat bound to the wooden chair, her wrists secured tightly behind her back. The dim light of the cabin flickered, casting eerie shadows across the rough-hewn walls. Despite her captivity, she exuded an unsettling calm that unnerved her captors.
The scarred man, Vincent Blackwell, grew increasingly agitated by her unshakable composure. With a rough jerk, he tore the blindfold from her eyes.
“Don’t try anything stupid,” he snarled.
Isabella didn’t react immediately. She kept her eyes closed for a beat, adjusting to the sudden light. When she finally opened them, her gaze was steady, assessing him with unnerving precision.
“You’ve been trained well,” she remarked, her tone almost conversational. “And this place is certainly remote. But tell me—how did you smuggle weapons through airport security? It’s usually quite thorough.”
Her voice was light, almost playful.
Vincent sneered, leaning in closer. “We have connections, unlike you. Security isn’t a problem for us.”
He’d been warned not to trust a word from her lips. Isabella Sinclair was notorious for her cunning. Yet here she was, captured without resistance. It had all been too easy—too perfect. The only thing that unsettled him was her icy demeanor. No fear. Not even a flicker.
A faint smile tugged at Isabella’s lips. “Is your boss the leader of the Burned Hands Mafia?” she asked casually.
Vincent stiffened. “Of course! And don’t get any ideas. He’ll be here in three days. So, Ms. Sinclair, I suggest you enjoy what little freedom you have left. After that…” He let the threat hang in the air.
Isabella remained unmoved. Her eyes swept the room, cataloging every detail. Then she tilted her head toward the small surveillance camera in the corner. “But hasn’t your boss been watching this whole time?” Her voice was soft, mocking. “Why hasn’t he shown his face? Too afraid? Or just too ugly?”
A slow, dangerous smile curved her lips. For a moment, a fierce, untamed beauty flickered across her face, catching Vincent off guard.
“You must mean Dominic Vega,” she murmured. “Did no one teach you to hide your organization’s markings on a mission?” She recalled the tattoo on Lucas Mendoza’s neck—a dead giveaway.
“After all these years, Dominic,” she continued, her tone shifting from curiosity to certainty, “why are you still hiding?”
The Burned Hands Mafia had been one of her oldest enemies. The tattoo had triggered memories of the vengeance she’d once sought against them.
A chilling laugh echoed from the shadows. Vincent’s eyes widened as he instinctively touched his neck, realizing his mistake. He turned toward a nearby monitor, stammering, “Boss, we didn’t mean to—this woman, she’s—”
“Silence.”
The screen flickered to life, revealing a man’s face—jagged scar running down his cheek like a centipede.
“Ms. Sinclair,” Dominic Vega drawled, his voice dripping with malice. “We meet again.”
Isabella didn’t flinch. She locked eyes with the man responsible for her mentor’s death. She hadn’t expected survivors from that explosion. Yet here he was—alive, vengeful, and in control.
Dominic’s voice was a cold rasp. “This time, I’ll make sure you beg for death. That delicate skin of yours… how many lashes do you think it’ll take to break you?” He gestured behind him, where a lion prowled in the shadows, its golden eyes gleaming. “Or maybe I’ll let my pet have you first.”
The scars on his face were a testament to the suffering she’d once inflicted. After she’d torn through the Mafia, Dominic had clawed his way back to power. The hatred between them ran deep.
“Or,” he continued, his voice softening into something far more sinister, “you could hand over the key to Shadow Network. You know the one I mean. Do that, and I might grant you a quicker death.”
Years ago, they’d killed for that key—only for it to fall into Isabella’s hands. Now, Dominic wanted it back.
Isabella’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Why don’t we discuss the key when you get here? You said three days, right? I’ll be sure to enjoy my peace until then.”
Her words were laced with sarcasm, a sharp reminder of the devastation she’d once unleashed on the Burned Hands.
Dominic’s face twitched with anger before he chuckled darkly. “Watch her closely,” he ordered his men. “Not even a fly escapes.”
“Yes, boss,” they muttered in unison.
The screen went black as Dominic shattered it with his fist. The cabin door creaked shut, sealing Isabella inside once more.
The moment they left, her smile vanished, replaced by cold calculation. Time was running out.
Before her phone had been destroyed, she’d discreetly sent her location to Alexander Kingsley.
Now, she just had to survive long enough for him to find her.
