Lorenzo's POV
"Boss, we found something."
Marco pushed open the door of the safe house, his voice trembling with a nervous energy. He clutched a file in his hand.

I sat up from the couch, the blood-stained phone still in my grasp. For days, I’d been hiding in this abandoned safe house like a ghost. Rumors about me were flying, but I didn't care.
I was waiting for news.
"A bounty hunter on the dark web replied," Marco said, handing me a blurry photo. "Someone saw Mrs. Isabella in a remote town in Maine."
The photo only showed a profile.
The background was a blizzard.
The woman was wearing a heavy winter jacket, standing in the snow, holding a shopping bag. But the straightness of her back, the coldness in her eyes—it was completely different from the soft woman I knew.

But even with the change, I knew it was her.
It was my Bella.
She wasn't dead.
My heart started beating again. The joy was so overwhelming it almost knocked me out. I couldn't even feel the sharp pain in my lungs.

"Get the car!" I shot up from the couch. "We're going to Maine! Right now!"
"Boss..." Marco stopped me. His face was grim, and he couldn't meet my eyes. "Before we go, you have to see this."
He held out a thick file and a voice recorder.
"Our inside man at St. Mary's Asylum recorded this. And... I pulled Isabella's medical file. From the penitentiary."
I frowned and took the recorder, pressing play.
"That worthless piece of shit Marco!"
Cassandra's voice, shrill and dripping with arrogance, filled the room.
"Did he do it? Why isn't that bitch Isabella dead yet?"
"What do you mean, you can't? I'm a Vitale princess! You're all my dogs!"
I clenched my fists. My knuckles cracked.
The recording continued. The words that came next made my blood run cold.
The person on the other end of the line seemed to be questioning her.
Cassandra let out a cold, smug laugh.
"You dare threaten me? You think that idiot Lorenzo will ever find out the truth?"
"That fool. To this day, he still thinks Isabella just had a 'hard time'! He still thinks I'm actually mentally ill!"
"He has no idea what I paid for in that prison! I bought the top dog in there. I told her, as long as she doesn't kill her, she can do whatever she wants!"
"I had them put crushed glass in that bitch's food! I made her swallow it, blood pouring from her mouth! I had them break three of her ribs in the shower and refuse her medical care! I made her get on her knees like a dog and lick my shoes!"
BOOM—
Something inside my head snapped.
Crushed glass... broken ribs... like a dog...
My hands trembled as I opened the medical file.
It was filled with line after line of cold, hard facts:
[Multiple lacerations to the esophagus, with internal bleeding.]
[Fractures of the left 3rd, 4th, and 5th ribs, with signs of improper healing.]
[Severe malnutrition, accompanied by acute PTSD symptoms.]
Every word was a shard of glass in my own throat. Each sentence, a rib cracking in my own chest.
All those days and nights Isabella was in prison, what I thought was just "a hard time" was this living hell.
And what was I doing then?
I was traveling the world with that venomous woman. I was buying her jewelry. I was believing her crocodile tears. I even signed those damn divorce papers to get Cassandra out on bail.
"And that old hag," Cassandra's voice on the recording grew more manic, "at the nursing home that day, I provoked her on purpose! I told her Isabella was a murderer, a piece of trash who was raped by her own father! It was so satisfying watching the old woman clutch her chest and have a heart attack!"
"The funniest part is Lorenzo. That idiot left the dying old woman to come bandage my ankle! Hahaha! Isabella didn't even get to see her one last time! Serves her right!"
The recording ended.
The room was dead silent.
Marco kept his head down, not daring to look at me.
I slowly stood up. The rage burned away everything—the pain, the grief, the regret. All that was left was a cold, clean purpose. To tear her world apart.
I didn't scream. I didn't break anything.
True rage is quiet.
"Boss..." Marco said, testing the waters.
"We're going to St. Mary's Asylum."
My voice came out quiet. A dead, flat calm that was more terrifying than any scream.
"Cassandra wants to play, does she?"
I pulled the Beretta I’d carried for years from my waistband and cocked it.
"Then I'll play."
"I'm going to show her what real hell is. I'm going to make her feel everything Isabella went through, a thousand times over."