Chapter 228: "Anonymously"

Moretti District was much as Aren remembered it from her last visit.

Stretching along the eastern bank of the river, it was the part of Borgata where the city gradually abandoned its respectable appearance and gave way to warehouses, processing plants, and industrial yards.

By the time they reached the target complex, night had fallen.

Isidore turned off the main road and parked beneath the dark windows of a shuttered machine shop, well beyond the reach of the nearest streetlight.

Across the road, the records-management complex lay behind its perimeter fence. Most of its buildings were dark, though Aren could occasionally make out the pale beam of a guard’s flashlight sweeping across the grounds.

She studied the compound through the windshield, mentally comparing what she could see with the floor plan Isidore had shown her at the hotel. Satisfied, she lowered the passenger-side sun visor, exposing the small vanity mirror.

Isidore glanced toward her as she retrieved a black beanie from the inner pocket of her jacket. She pulled it over her head and carefully tucked her hair beneath it, checking her reflection for stray strands that might give her away.

"Is the hair a problem?" Isidore asked.

"It is." She adjusted the edge of the beanie again. "I feel like anyone could recognize me by my hair, even in poor lighting."

Isidore considered that.

"Then why not dye it?"

"Don Caio said I’ve already cut Ariana’s hair this short. If I dye it as well, I won’t look much like Ariana Lombardi anymore, and that would be a serious problem."

The answer came so naturally that she had already returned her attention to the mirror before Isidore fully registered what she’d said.

He remained silent for a moment.

There was nothing particularly remarkable about her concern. A woman impersonating Ariana Lombardi would naturally need to preserve enough of the heiress’s appearance to avoid suspicion.

It was the way she’d phrased it that troubled him.

’Ariana’s hair.’

’Not my hair.’

Until now, Isidore had operated under a relatively straightforward theory about the woman beside him.

He knew she wasn’t the Ariana Lombardi everyone believed her to be. He also knew her skills and instincts were far too developed for someone her age.

He’d therefore concluded that she was a highly trained operative impersonating Ariana, while the real woman had been killed and her body disposed of to make way for the substitution.

It was a theory that accounted for most of what he’d observed. Since he’d never known Ariana Lombardi personally, he’d had little reason to question whether the woman beside him truly resembled her.

But the way she’d just spoken suggested something considerably stranger. She’d spoken as though the hair on her own head belonged to someone else.

’Does that mean this body isn’t hers?’

The possibility was so far removed from his original assumptions that he couldn’t immediately decide what to make of it, so he filed it away. There would be time to examine it later, preferably when they weren’t sitting across the road from a facility they intended to destroy.

"Makes sense," he said simply. Then he retrieved the earpiece and passed it to her.

Aren accepted it without noticing anything unusual in his manner. She was about to fit it into her ear when Isidore’s gaze settled on a loose strand of platinum hair beside her cheek.

"May I?"

She looked at him.

For a moment, she wasn’t certain what he meant, but when she followed his gaze, she understood.

"Oh."

She inclined her head slightly.

Isidore reached toward her face and carefully tucked the stray strand beneath the edge of her beanie. As usual, his touch was brief and light, almost excessively cautious, as though he were concerned that the slightest unnecessary pressure might disturb her.

Something warmed in her chest at that. When he finished, she looked up at him with a small smile.

"Thank you, Master Accardi."

"You’re welcome."

Isidore had already withdrawn his hand. He watched as she fitted the earpiece into place, then he checked the connection.

"Checking. Copy?"

"Copy."

Her reply came through clearly.

He gave a small nod.

"Be fast."

"Got it."

She opened the passenger door, slipped out of the car, and quietly closed it behind her. Within moments, she had disappeared into the darkness, making her way toward the perimeter of the complex.

─ •?• ─ ? ─ •?• ─

By the time Aren returned, the complex looked nothing like it had half an hour earlier.

An orange glow was spreading across the night sky, rising from somewhere deep within the industrial grounds, while distant alarms mingled with the shouts of men calling instructions to one another.

Aren slipped into the passenger seat as casually as though she’d just returned from a pleasant evening walk.

"Does the fire look good?" she asked, gesturing toward the complex as she fastened her seat belt.

Isidore glanced past her at the growing glow.

"That was fast."

"You told me to be fast," Aren replied.

There was a distinctly cheerful note in her voice. As far as she was concerned, the operation had gone remarkably well.

Isidore had just begun easing the car out of its hiding place when something across the road caught her attention.

The complex’s main gate was opening. A car emerged from the grounds and turned onto the road, passing briefly through a patch of light.

Aren glanced toward its windshield.

Her expression changed entirely the moment she recognized the man behind the wheel.

’Manuel?’

Her hand shot up.

"Wait."

Isidore stopped the car at once and turned toward her.

"What is it?"

"I’m very sorry, Master Accardi." She was already unfastening her seat belt. "It seems you and I won’t be returning to the hotel together. I need to leave now."

Isidore stared at her.

He disliked confusion, particularly when it arrived without warning in the middle of an operation that had otherwise proceeded according to plan.

When he followed her gaze toward the road, the departing car was already disappearing into the darkness, too far away for him to identify its occupants.

"What is it?" he repeated, more firmly this time.

"I spotted someone I’ve been looking for," Aren explained hurriedly. "He’s involved in a very serious personal matter, and he has a few debts to settle with me. If I don’t follow him now, I might lose the opportunity."

She reached for the door handle, but before she could pull it, Isidore’s hand closed over hers, holding it in place.

She looked at him in surprise and found him watching her with composed disapproval.

"Does that person concern our objective?"

"Not directly," Aren admitted.

"Then he isn’t part of tonight’s operation."

"Which is why you should go back to the hotel first," she insisted. "I’ll handle this myself and take a taxi afterward."

For a moment, Isidore simply fixed her with a flat look. She had apparently decided that pursuing a Moretti man through Moretti territory, alone, immediately after sabotaging a Moretti facility, was a perfectly reasonable adjustment to their evening.

He found the proposal objectionable on several levels. Nevertheless, his voice remained calm.

"Tell me who he is."

"Manuel Cardozo," she spoke quickly, growing more restless as the car drew farther away. "He’s one of the Moretti capos. I know I’m not supposed to be pursuing him, but I heard something from Lucilla’s people. They confessed that when they approached Manuel, he was the one who supplied her with the sex tapes."

Something changed in Isidore.

The measured patience with which he’d been questioning her disappeared, replaced by a decisiveness that required no further explanation. He released her hand and turned toward the windshield.

"Seat belt on."

Aren blinked.

"Master Accardi?"

"And don’t throw up in my car."

Aren barely had time to understand the warning. Her hand moved toward the seat belt, and the moment the buckle snapped into place—

SCREEECH!

Isidore swung the car out of the shadows with such force that Aren was thrown against the side of her seat. Within seconds, they were racing down the road after Manuel Cardozo.

For a man whose expression suggested nothing more exciting than a routine drive through the city, Isidore was handling the car with alarming aggression.

The lighting in this part of Moretti District was terrible. Streetlamps were few and far between, leaving long stretches of asphalt almost entirely dark. Yet he accelerated through the gaps between vehicles with unnerving precision, taking corners fast enough that Aren kept glancing between the speedometer and the road ahead.

"Master Accardi, there are pedestrians ahead," she warned, squinting into the poorly lit street.

"I can see them."

He accelerated again.

"That’s why I told you not to throw up in my car."

"I see." She gripped the edge of her seat and concentrated on spotting any obstacles in their path. "I’ll be fine. Please go faster."

"What do you intend to do with him?"

"Um..." She hesitated. "You probably wouldn’t like it if I told you."

"Does it involve him being erased?"

She glanced at him.

"Would you try to convince me not to?"

"No."

The answer came without the slightest hesitation. His face was perfectly calm, and something about that quiet, decisive calm concerned her far more than their current speed.

Before she could examine the thought further, Manuel’s taillights appeared ahead.

They had entered a quieter stretch of road, with no other vehicles nearby, and Isidore closed the remaining distance in moments.

Inside his car, Manuel was still on his phone.

He’d been occupied with the aftermath of the disturbance at the complex and had barely noticed the black car approaching from behind. Only when it drew alongside him did he finally look up.

"What the fuck is wrong with that car?" he muttered.

He turned his head, trying to see who was driving. Before he could make out the face behind the wheel, the black car surged ahead — then swung directly into his path.

"FUCK—!"

Manuel slammed on the brakes.

Screeeeeech!

His tires screamed, and his body strained violently against the seat belt as his car lurched to a halt, narrowly missing the black vehicle.

Inside the black car, Isidore moved so quickly that Aren barely had time to call out.

"Master—"

He retrieved a suppressed gun from a compartment and stepped out. Within moments, he was already approaching Manuel’s vehicle.

Manuel’s irritation faltered the moment he recognized the man.

"Isidore Accardi?"

He barely had time to shout the name before Isidore aimed the gun straight at the driver’s window.

KRASHHHH!

"Aaaaaargh!"

Manuel’s desperate scream filled the air. For a moment, he thought he’d been shot in the head, but he quickly realized he was still in one piece.

Shattered glass rained down on him as Isidore reached through the broken window and pulled the door open from inside.

Manuel stared at him, stunned.

"What the fuck do you think you’re—"

He never finished the sentence.

Isidore seized him by the collar, and the first punch landed across his face with devastating force.

THWACK!

Manuel’s head snapped sideways.

Pain exploded through his cheek, sharp enough to wipe every coherent thought from his mind. Before he could register what had happened, another blow struck him.

THWACK!

Manuel sagged against the seat, his vision swimming.

"W-why the fuck did you—"

Blood ran from his mouth as he struggled to form the words.

"How dare you... This is my territory. This is—"

"Moretti territory, you mean?"

Isidore’s voice remained conversational, but the look in his eyes made Manuel’s blood run cold.

"Bad news, Cardozo. You’re not under Moretti protection anymore."

By then, Aren had reached them. She stopped just behind Isidore, looking from his face to Manuel’s rapidly swelling features with growing concern.

This was a rather unexpected development.

She’d been planning to deal with Manuel herself. She certainly hadn’t anticipated Isidore volunteering for the task, much less approaching it with an enthusiasm she hadn’t known he possessed.

"Um, Master Accardi...?"

She studied him.

"Are you... all right? Do you need my assistance?"

Manuel’s bloodied face turned toward her, and his eyes widened.

"You..."

For a moment, his expression held more confusion than fear.

"...Ariana?"

His teeth chattered as he tried to speak through his swollen mouth.

"Ariana, baby! What is this all about, huh? What’s going on?"

Aren opened her mouth, but Isidore answered before she could.

"This is about understanding what you are and aren’t supposed to do." He tightened his grip on Manuel’s collar. "And you failed."

The next punch drove straight into Manuel’s face.

THWACK!

"Argh—!"

Another struck his ribs.

THWACK!

"Gah—!"

Manuel tried to curl inward, but Isidore hauled him out of the seat and held him upright, denying him even the small protection of folding around the pain.

"Please—"

THWACK!

By the time Isidore stopped, Manuel could no longer support his own weight. His head hung forward, his limbs slack. The only reason he hadn’t collapsed onto the road was that Isidore still had a fist twisted into his collar.

Aren watched the entire exchange with a complicated mixture of professional appreciation and personal bewilderment.

From a technical standpoint, Isidore’s technique was exceptionally clean.

Each strike was controlled, directed at a vulnerable point, and delivered with the precision of someone who knew exactly how much damage he intended to inflict.

’That’s... remarkably efficient.’

Under different circumstances, she might even have asked him about his training. But something else troubled her.

’It’s also very unlike him.’

The Isidore she knew preferred to give instructions and let other people carry them out.

He was patient, calculating, and rarely inclined to expend effort on something that could be delegated. Yet here he was, personally beating a Moretti capo into unconsciousness on a deserted street.

"Um, Master Accardi," she ventured carefully, "I don’t think he’s... functioning anymore."

"That was the intention."

He released Manuel’s collar, and the man collapsed onto the pavement with a heavy thud. He looked down at Manuel for a moment before turning toward Aren.

"What do you want to do with him?"

"Tie him up."

Aren stepped forward without hesitation and knelt beside Manuel’s motionless body. From inside her jacket, she produced a cable restraint.

Isidore’s gaze settled on it and, for the first time since he’d learned Manuel’s identity, his thoughts briefly stalled.

’She carries cable restraints?’

He recalled their earlier conversation at the hotel, particularly her earnest questions about the purpose of restraints in a sexual context. Apparently, she was considerably more familiar with their practical applications.

He filed the observation away and knelt beside her to help.

"Are you disposing of him? There’s a drainage channel nearby."

"No." She shook her head as she secured Manuel’s wrists. "I can’t dispose of him just yet. And I never intended to kill him myself."

Isidore glanced at her.

"Then what did you intend?"

"There’s someone who wants to settle a score with him even more than I do."

He raised an eyebrow.

"And who would that be?"

A small smile touched Aren’s lips. It was an unusually mischievous expression, one Isidore couldn’t recall seeing on her before.

"I need to send this man to the Marchetti compound."

She tightened the restraint.

"Anonymously."