Chapter 3 — Unlikely Allies

Marco

The Piazza della Notte was still as a held breath, its cobblestones slick with dew and faintly glistening under the dim glow of wrought-iron lamps. Renaissance-era buildings loomed around the square, their centuries-old facades washed in shadows that seemed to stretch with intent. The faint burble of the fountain at its center provided the only sound, a quiet rhythm against the muffled hum of distant city life. Marco Enzo stood near the fountain, his tall, commanding figure a silhouette against the subdued light. His tailored suit, dark and immaculate, clung to him like a second skin, emphasizing the precision in his every measured movement.

The square was supposed to be a sanctuary—a neutral ground where no blood was spilled, where the unspoken rules of negotiation were respected. Yet Marco knew better. In their world, rules existed only to be broken, and tradition was as fragile as glass. His sharp eyes swept over every shadowed window, every narrow doorway, dissecting the square with quiet suspicion. The air was thick with the possibility of betrayal.

He adjusted the cuff of his jacket, his fingers brushing briefly against the smooth bezel of his watch. Midnight. She was late.

A faint scrape of boots against cobblestone drew his attention, the sound deliberate, unhurried. His pulse quickened, but his outward demeanor remained calm, controlled. His hand moved to his inner pocket, fingers ghosting over the cold steel of the pistol concealed there. He didn’t turn immediately, instead listening to the rhythm of the steps. Confident. Calculated. Whoever approached was no amateur.

“Marco Enzo.” The words cut through the quiet, low and deliberate, laced with an edge that Marco instantly recognized—control, precision, and the unmistakable undercurrent of danger. He turned slowly, his dark eyes locking onto the figure standing a few paces away.

Isabella Denise.

Even in the dim light, she was striking. Her angular features were shrouded in shadow, but her piercing green eyes cut through the darkness, their intensity sharp enough to pierce flesh. She wore dark, fitted clothing—practical, understated, and deliberate. The sleek braid trailing down her back and her poised stance betrayed nothing, though her every movement carried the coiled tension of a predator ready to strike.

Marco had heard of her, of course. Albelino’s shadow. His finest weapon. The stories painted her as a ghost, a specter of precision and death. But the cold fire in her gaze now, fixed solely on him, gave the stories new weight. He let none of his thoughts show, his expression a mask of neutrality as he studied her.

“You’re late,” Marco said, his voice calm, conversational, though his words carried a subtle challenge.

Isabella didn’t flinch. If anything, her gaze sharpened further, her poise unbroken. She stepped closer, her boots brushing the stones with quiet confidence. “I didn’t realize punctuality was a requirement for saving your life.”

A faint twitch pulled at the corner of Marco’s mouth—a glimmer of amusement, quickly smothered by suspicion. “And here I thought you’d come to beg for mine.”

Her lips tilted into a cold smile, though her eyes remained unyielding, unamused. “If I wanted you dead, Marco, you wouldn’t have seen me coming.”

The words cut through the thin veil of civility between them, the tension crackling like dry lightning. Marco gestured toward the fountain with a tilt of his chin, a silent invitation. Isabella hesitated for a fraction of a second before stepping forward, her movements deliberate. She stopped opposite him, the fountain now a boundary line, its soft murmurs filling the silence like the ticking of a clock.

“You asked for this meeting,” Marco began, his tone steady, deliberate. “So tell me—why should I trust Albelino’s weapon, the woman trained to slit my throat?”

Isabella’s expression didn’t falter, though Marco caught the briefest flicker in her eyes—too quick, too fleeting to read. Without a word, she reached into her jacket and withdrew a weathered leather book. *The Red Ledger.* The worn cover and frayed edges caught the light, and Marco’s gaze locked onto it. His fingers twitched imperceptibly, the weight of its significance settling in his mind.

“I have something Albelino doesn’t want you to see,” she said, her voice smooth and controlled, though Marco detected a faint edge beneath it. She placed the ledger on the fountain’s edge, letting it rest there as though it carried the weight of a loaded weapon. “Names, transactions, alliances. All the leverage you need to dismantle him. Piece by piece.”

Marco’s jaw tightened, his expression unreadable, though his mind raced. “And you’re just handing it over? Out of what—kindness? Mercy?”

Her fingers lingered on the ledger, tightening briefly before she released it. Her voice dropped, raw anger threading briefly through her words before she pulled it back under control. “Let’s not waste time pretending this is charity. I’m here because I have no other choice. Albelino betrayed me, Marco. He’ll betray you too—if he hasn’t already. You know it as well as I do.”

Her words hit their mark, the truth of them sinking into him like a splinter. Marco stayed silent, his gaze dissecting her, searching for cracks in her composure. The ledger alone could shift the balance in ways he hadn’t yet begun to consider, but that wasn’t enough. Trust was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Not with someone like her.

“Even if I believed you,” he said slowly, his tone cutting, “what makes you think I’d risk my empire for a woman who’s spent her life killing on his orders?”

Isabella’s green eyes hardened, glinting like shards of ice. “Because I’m the only one who can bring him down. I know his patterns, his strategies, his weaknesses. You need me, Marco. And I need you.”

There it was—the crackle of vulnerability, buried deep beneath her icy exterior. Marco couldn’t ignore it. Albelino had betrayed her. He could see it now, in the way she held herself, in the faint tremor of something raw and unspoken beneath her composure. But whether that vulnerability made her an asset or a liability remained to be seen.

“And what happens when we succeed?” he asked, his gaze narrowing. His voice carried a quiet menace, a warning. “When Albelino is gone, and we’re left standing? Will your dagger find its way to my back?”

Isabella’s lips curved, her expression colder now, her tone unwavering. “You’ll just have to trust me.”

Marco chuckled, low and humorless. “Trust,” he murmured. “A fragile thing to wager in our world.”

The silence between them deepened, the fountain’s murmur a quiet backdrop to their unspoken tension. Marco’s gaze flicked to *The Red Ledger*, then back to her. She was dangerous—of that, he was certain. But her resolve, her fire, was undeniable. If her claims were true, she was his best chance at dismantling Albelino.

Finally, he reached for the ledger, his hand brushing the worn leather. Its weight felt heavier than it should, the promises and risks it carried sinking into him. “We’re not allies,” he said, his voice low and commanding, “not yet. You’ll have to prove yourself first.”

Isabella inclined her head slightly, a faint, humorless smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. “I never expected anything less.”

Marco slid the ledger into his jacket, his eyes never leaving hers. “There’s an arms deal. Tomorrow night, Saint-Ouen docks. Albelino and the Irish mafia.” He paused, his gaze sharpening. “Be there. If you’re as good as you claim, we’ll find out.”

Her expression didn’t shift, though he saw the flicker of understanding in her eyes. She nodded once, curt and precise, before turning to leave. Her boots echoed softly against the cobblestones as she walked away, her figure melting into the shadows.

“Isabella.”

She stopped, glancing back over her shoulder, her expression unreadable.

Marco’s voice was calm, but his dark eyes carried a warning. “If you betray me, there won’t be a second chance.”

Her smirk returned, colder now. “Good thing I don’t believe in second chances.”

And just like that, she was gone, swallowed by the night. Marco stood there for a moment, his thoughts a storm beneath his calm exterior. The weight of *The Red Ledger* pressed against his chest, a reminder of the blade it could become if wielded wrong. He didn’t trust her—he couldn’t. But for now, their mutual hatred of Albelino aligned their paths.

And in their world, alignment was the closest thing to trust anyone could hope for.

With a final glance at the empty square, Marco turned and walked away, his footsteps fading into the Florence night.