Chapter 8
The swift, tactical mobilization of the Bellandi bodyguards transformed the elegant welcome party into a heavily fortified military operation. Dozens of men in dark suits moved with lethal precision, systematically securing the perimeter of the ballroom and isolating anyone affiliated with Victoria and Marcus. The wealthy American guests were herded toward the exits, aggressively warned to forget everything they had seen.
"Get them out of my sight," Lorenzo commanded, his voice a low, steady rumble that echoed over the chaos.
Two massive guards hauled a screaming, thrashing Victoria to her feet, dragging her backward across the marble. Her emerald gown dragged pathetically over the scattered pearls. Another pair of guards hauled Marcus up by the lapels of his ruined suit, forcing him to walk while clutching his shattered ribs, the black pet collar still clutched mockingly in one of the guard's hands.
As the traitors were forced through the heavy double doors, their desperate pleas fading into the corridors, Lorenzo finally allowed the iron tension in his broad shoulders to release.
He turned away from the destruction and walked back to the corner where his bodyguards were still shielding Isabella.
"Stand down," Lorenzo ordered softly.
The guards parted immediately. Lorenzo dropped to one knee, completely ignoring the dust and debris on the floor. He reached out and gently pulled the weeping three-year-old into his arms. Isabella buried her face in his neck, her tiny hands gripping his dark vest with desperate strength. Her torn, filthy clothes stained his expensive suit, but Lorenzo held her as if she were the most precious treasure in the world.
"It's over, my beautiful girl," Lorenzo whispered warmly, pressing a soft kiss to her messy hair. "Daddy took care of the monsters. You are completely safe now."
"They put me in the dark box, Daddy," Isabella sobbed, her tiny American accent breaking his heart. "It was scary."
"I know, baby. I know," Lorenzo murmured, standing up effortlessly while holding her securely. "They are never going to hurt you again. I promise you on my life."
He carried his daughter out of the ruined ballroom, walking through the bright, pristine corridors of the estate toward the private residential wing. He bypassed the frantic cleaning crews and the armed patrols, focusing entirely on soothing the child in his arms.
He brought her to her expansive, beautifully decorated bedroom, where a loyal, terrified nanny was waiting.
"Draw a warm bath," Lorenzo instructed the nanny gently. "Burn those clothes. And stay by her side."
May you like
"Yes, Mr. Bellandi," the nanny nodded quickly, hurrying into the en-suite bathroom.
Lorenzo sat on the edge of the plush bed, rocking Isabella until her sobs finally subsided into soft, exhausted hiccups. He stayed with her until the bath was ready, ensuring she felt the absolute, unbroken protection of her father. But as he watched her, his mind, sharpened by decades of syndicate warfare, began to analyze the deeper implications of the day's events. Victoria was cruel, but she was not suicidal. To openly torture the heir to the empire required backing.
