The Fortress in Lake Forest

The estate in Lake Forest was an imposing fortress of dark limestone, wrought-iron gates, and towering hemlocks, secluded behind fifty acres of private shoreline overlooking Lake Michigan. It was the ancestral seat of the Falcone syndicate—surrounded by motion sensors, thermal cameras, and twenty armed sentries on continuous patrol.

The convoy of black SUVs entered through the heavy iron gates. Lorenzo carried Isla over his shoulder up the grand limestone staircase like a captured trophy of war, ignoring her kicks and furious curses.

"Put me down, you bastard!" Isla hissed, pounding her fists against his rock-hard back.

Lorenzo didn't break stride. He carried her through the cavernous grand foyer, past marble statues and Renaissance tapestries, directly into the east wing master quarters. With a single shove of his boot, the heavy oak doors swung open. He dumped her onto a colossal California king bed dressed in black velvet.

Isla scrambled backward against the headboard, her dark green eyes ablaze with venom. Her clothes were torn, her knuckles bruised, but her posture was that of a queen preparing for execution.

Lorenzo stood before the bed, shrugging off his heavy overcoat. Beneath the coat, his white dress shirt was taut against the sculpted expanse of his broad chest and corded shoulders. Two leather shoulder holsters framed his torso, carrying dual silver semi-automatic pistols.

"Welcome to your new cage, Donna Isla," Lorenzo said smoothly, unbuckling his holsters and setting the weapons on the mahogany dresser.

"My father will hunt you down," Isla warned, her voice trembling with rage. "He will tear this house apart stone by stone."

Lorenzo laughed—a cold, humorless sound that echoed off the high timber ceilings. He walked slowly toward the bed, stopping at the edge of the mattress. Towering over her, his sheer physical size seemed to suck all the air from the room.

"Your father, Salvatore Moretti, is a coward who trades his own blood for survival," Lorenzo said, his mercury-gray eyes darkening into molten steel. "He knew my men were waiting at the port tonight. He used you as a decoy so his secondary convoy could smuggle his heroin through Cicero."

Isla’s breath hitched. A cold, nauseating knot tightened in her stomach. "You lie."

"Do I?" Lorenzo challenged, stepping onto the bed, crawling forward on his hands and knees until he hovered directly over her.

Isla pressed her back flat against the headboard, her chest heaving as the intoxicating scent of tobacco, cedar, and raw male dominance enveloped her senses.

"Call him," Lorenzo murmured, pulling a secure satellite phone from his pocket and dropping it onto her lap. "Call your beloved father. Ask him why his phone is turned off. Ask him why his private jet is fueling at Midway right now."

Isla stared at the phone. Her hands trembled as she punched in her father's private encrypted number.

*The number you have dialed is no longer in service.*

The recorded operator voice hit her like a physical blow. Her father—the man she had risked her life for—had abandoned her to the enemy.

The phone slipped from her fingers.

Lorenzo reached out, his large, warm hand cupping the side of her throat. His thumb rested over her frantic, fluttering pulse point, feeling the wild cadence of her shock.

"He discarded you, Isla," Lorenzo whispered, his voice dropping into a low, husky rasp that sent shivers racing down her spine. "He left you to the Reaper. But in my house, you will learn what loyalty truly means."