Florence Penthouse — 4:12 AM
The city slept, but Isabella didn’t.
She stood on the balcony, barefoot, a silk sheet wrapped loosely around her body. Her hair was still messy from his hands. Her lips bruised from his mouth. But her mind? Razor sharp.
Matthew Sinclair was asleep on her bed, shirtless, a scar running across his ribs that told a story she wanted to know but couldn’t ask.
He wasn’t like the others.
He wasn’t meant to survive.
And yet — he was still breathing.
She lit a cigarette, watching the smoke curl into the dawn sky.
"You’re losing your edge, Isa," she whispered to herself.
---
Mission Debrief — Villa in Florence (9:00 AM)
By the time she returned to her private villa, the team was waiting — Gigi leaning against the black marble counter, Thomas on a call with London, Emma and Hannah on the couch with laptops open.
Gigi (smirking):
“Judging by your hair, I’m guessing Sinclair isn’t dead.”
Isabella shot her a cold glare that could freeze lava.
“Not your business, G.”
“Funny, I thought killing people was our business,” Gigi muttered but didn’t push.
---
Intel Report:
Sinclair had made three new weapon deals in the last month — all under offshore companies. The task force was sniffing around. If they connected Sinclair’s routes to her network, it could burn everything.
Thomas:
“London’s hearing whispers. Your target is smarter than expected. The man leaves no trace. Which means—”
Isabella (interrupting):
“Which means he’s too useful to kill.”
The room went silent.
Emma:
“You’re keeping him alive?”
Isabella:
“For now. He knows things we can’t buy. And I…”
She stopped herself.
Hannah (raising an eyebrow):
“You what?”
Isabella (cold):
“I’m the only one who decides who dies.”
---
Later — Alone in Her Office
She replayed the night in her mind — not the pleasure, not the heat, but the way Matthew watched her. As if he already knew she wasn’t who she said she was.
On her laptop screen, a new file blinked.
Subject: Matthew Theodore Sinclair
Aliases. Shell companies. Military background. MI6 ties.
She whispered his name. It felt like a curse.
“Matthew Sinclair…”
---
Florence — Meanwhile
Matthew stood in the same rooftop bar from the night before, a glass of bourbon in his hand. His second-in-command approached.
“She didn’t kill you. Why?”
Matthew smirked, eyes dark.
“Because she’s not sure if she should kill me… or keep me.”
He sipped the bourbon.
“And that, my friend, is the most dangerous kind of woman.”
---
Matthew’s POV — Florence, Italy
Nightfall.
She walked into the private rooftop bar like she didn’t need permission to exist — like the city belonged to her.
Black dress. No smile. A glass of whiskey ordered before she even sat down.
No last name given. Just Isabella.
And somehow, that was enough.
She spoke with precision, not flirtation. Her laughter never reached her eyes. Her gaze said one thing: I know who you are. The question is… do you know me?
He did not.
But he wanted to.
---
Penthouse. 3:03 AM.
They barely made it through the door before her hands were on his collar and his mouth found her skin.
There was something violent about her touch.
Something… haunted.
Like she’d survived hell and brought back ashes in her veins.
Like she didn’t make love — she burned in it.
And he let her.
Because he was tired of women who begged.
She didn’t beg. She commanded.
---
Later.
She stood at his window, wearing nothing but shadows and that look in her eyes.
The silence between them wasn’t awkward — it was strategic.
She was calculating. Assessing.
So was he.
This wasn’t about attraction anymore. It was information.
And he was starting to think they were both on the wrong side of the same war.
---
When she left.
She kissed him like she might never come back — and like she wouldn’t care if she didn’t.
He let her.
Watched her walk away without asking for her number. Without asking for anything.
Because that wasn’t the point.
She wasn’t a lover. She was a test. A warning. A puzzle.
And he intended to solve her.
---
Morning After — 7:00 AM.
His phone vibrated.
> "Sir, we found something. Surveillance at the club shows she entered with a fake ID. No fingerprints. No trace online."
Of course not.
He smirked and leaned back in his chair, shirtless, bruised, but very much alive.
“She’s not a ghost,” he murmured. “She’s a storm pretending to be a shadow.”
He poured a drink.
> "What’s the next move?"
Matthew’s eyes narrowed.
“Track her. Quietly. Don’t approach. Don’t alert Interpol.”
> "Why not?"
“Because I want to know what she does next… when she thinks no one’s watching.”
---
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MAFIA QUEEN
Short StoryAfter the 3 sentries she is born, the only girl in the family. But they are not the ordinary people they are famous Italian Mafia. THE FERRARI FAMILY But they lost her because of the work they are in and because of their reputation. ************...
