Chapter 2 — Shadows in Paris

Isabella

The Black Thorn Club loomed like a cathedral of shadows and sound, its pulse vibrating through the graffiti-streaked alley as Isabella approached. Rain slicked the pavement, making the air heavy with the mingled scents of damp cement, spilled liquor, and unspoken desperation. The unmarked steel door ahead blended seamlessly into its surroundings, like a predator cloaked in stillness. It was a portal not just to another world but to Albelino’s shadow—his domain of decadence and danger.

Pulling her hood tighter, Isabella scanned the alley with sharp, deliberate movements. Her piercing green eyes probed every darkened corner, cataloging potential threats. Each faint sound—the distant hum of traffic, the echo of laughter, the clatter of unseen footsteps—competed for her attention. When she was certain she hadn’t been followed, her hand pressed against the chilled steel. The door groaned open, and the chaos inside swallowed her whole.

The club struck her senses like a storm. Bass-heavy music throbbed through the walls, the rhythm relentless and all-encompassing. Red velvet drapes soaked up erratic strobe lights while bodies moved through the haze of cigarette smoke and shadow. The air reeked of sweat, ash, and the sweetness of spilled cocktails, layered with an undertone of menace. Once, this place had been a haven for her. Now, it was a hunting ground.

She moved with purpose, every step deliberate, her gaze razor-sharp. Somewhere in the thrum of music and murmured conversations were the answers she needed. Her hand brushed against the weight of *The Red Ledger*, tucked securely inside her jacket. Its worn leather binding was a compass, each name a thread in Albelino’s empire—a web she would unravel until he was left with nothing.

The bar loomed ahead, a polished island amidst the tumult. Her target was slouched at its edge, his rumpled suit and restless demeanor setting him apart from the more polished patrons. Henri Durand. His fingers curled around a half-empty tumbler of whiskey, while his other hand tapped a jittery rhythm on the counter. He looked like a man drowning in his own irrelevance, but Isabella knew better. As one of Albelino’s less trusted lieutenants, Henri’s bitterness and paranoia made him dangerous—yet useful.

“You’re far from home,” she murmured as she slid onto the stool beside him. Her voice was low, cutting through the noise without drawing attention.

Henri flinched, his bloodshot eyes snapping to her face. Recognition dawned, followed swiftly by fear. His shoulders stiffened, his fingers tightening around his glass. “Isabella,” he hissed, his voice hoarse and barely audible over the music. “You shouldn’t be here. Albelino—”

“Knows I’m alive,” she interrupted, her tone as sharp and cold as a blade. “And I’m sure he’d love to fix that. But right now, I’m the one sitting next to you, and I’m not here for small talk.”

His gaze darted around the room, his unease palpable. He looked like a trapped animal, weighing every exit, calculating the odds of escape. “You’re a dead woman walking,” he muttered, leaning closer. The sharp tang of whiskey on his breath hit her. “You know that, don’t you?”

A faint smirk tugged at her lips, though nothing about it was warm. “Then I’ve got nothing to lose.” She let her hand drop to her thigh, her fingers brushing the etched hilt of *L’Étreinte*. The movement was subtle but deliberate—a reminder of her precision, her readiness. His eyes lingered on the motion, and she saw the color drain from his face.

“What do you want?” he asked, his voice cracking beneath the weight of his fear.

“Answers,” she said simply, leaning closer. Her tone dropped, sharp and cutting. “You were at the meeting with the Irish. What are they planning?”

Henri’s hand trembled as he drained his glass in a single gulp. His jaw worked, his lips twisting as if warring with the words he knew she wanted. “A shipment,” he admitted reluctantly, his voice a low rasp. “Arms deal. Tomorrow night, the docks near Saint-Ouen. They’re aligning with Albelino—expanding his operations. It’s bigger than anything they’ve done before.”

Her heartbeat quickened, though her exterior remained composed. The implications were enormous. This wasn’t just an arms deal; it was Albelino solidifying his dominance. She needed more.

“And Marco Enzo?” she pressed, her voice quieter now but no less dangerous. “What does Albelino have planned for him?”

Henri hesitated, resentment flickering across his face. “You think you’re clever, digging up secrets?” His lips curled into a sneer, but it lacked conviction. “Albelino doesn’t care about you or Enzo. To him, you’re just another tool. A weapon he doesn’t need anymore. You think you’re free? He’ll crush you both before you even get close.”

Her mask slipped, if only for a moment. Pain twisted beneath her cold exterior, a knife’s edge scraping across old wounds. But she forced the emotion down, burying it beneath her resolve. “You mistake me for someone who’s afraid to fight,” she said flatly, her voice a dagger in its own right. “But I’m not the one drowning here, Henri.”

Before he could respond, the air shifted. Her instincts flared, sharp and immediate. In the corner of her vision, two men moved with unsettling precision, their eyes honing in on her like predators. Albelino’s enforcers. She recognized their faces, their cold efficiency. They weren’t here to drink.

“Time’s up,” Henri muttered, resignation heavy in his voice. “You’ve made your bed, girl. Good luck lying in it.”

Isabella didn’t answer. She slipped from the stool, her movements fluid as she melted into the crowd. The thrum of music masked her footsteps, but she could feel the enforcers closing in. The club’s labyrinthine layout offered cover, but escape was far from certain. Her mind raced, calculating routes, weighing risks.

She ducked into a narrow corridor near the DJ booth, the pounding bass fading to a muffled pulse. The footsteps behind her grew louder, heavier. At the end of the hallway, her hand brushed a concealed panel she had memorized weeks ago. With a swift push, it slid open, revealing a dark, cramped storage room.

She slipped inside, the panel sliding shut behind her, plunging the space into silence. Darkness pressed in around her as her fingers found the dagger’s hilt, the cold steel grounding her. She pressed her back against the wall, forcing her breath to slow. Outside, footsteps paused.

Seconds stretched like hours. Every creak of the floorboards, every muffled voice, was a warning. Her heart hammered in her chest, but her grip on *L’Étreinte* remained steady. Finally, the footsteps receded, fading into the distance.

She exhaled slowly, her muscles relaxing just enough to ease the tension coiled inside her. The storage room was stifling, the air thick with dust. But it had served its purpose.

When she emerged, the chaos of the club enveloped her once more. She navigated the maze of bodies with practiced precision, her movements quick and deliberate. Her sharp eyes scanned for any lingering threats, but the enforcers were nowhere in sight. By the time she stepped into the alley, the weight of *The Red Ledger* against her side felt heavier than ever.

The rain had softened to a drizzle, the city’s light reflecting off the wet pavement. Isabella pulled her hood up, her green eyes cutting through the shadows. Lyon had been a battlefield. Paris was no different.

Her next steps crystallized in her mind. The docks near Saint-Ouen. The arms deal. And Marco Enzo.

As she disappeared into the Parisian night, the pieces of the game shifted. Each step brought her closer to dismantling Albelino’s empire, one thread at a time. *The Red Ledger* was her weapon, and with every name, every secret she unearthed, she would carve her path to freedom—no matter the cost.