Savage Honor: Blood Oath

009: The Cost of Her Silence

There’s a moment—right before everything shatters—when you can still turn back.

When the path behind you isn’t buried yet, when the blood hasn’t dried.

But I passed that point a long time ago.

Now, every step forward feels like walking barefoot through glass.

And Isabella?

She’s bleeding, too.

But she’s not making a sound.

We buried my father a second time.

Same plot. Same priest. Same marble stone.

Only this time, no one came but me and Isabella.

I stood over the hole and stared into the dirt, fists clenched at my sides.

“I was never his favorite,” I said. “But I never thought someone would drag his body out just to send a message.”

Isabella didn’t speak.

She placed a black rose on the headstone.

Then, finally, “He would’ve been proud.”

I turned to her. “You didn’t know him.”

“No. But I know what legacy demands.”

Her voice was quiet. Sharp.

And somehow more dangerous than any gun.

Later that night, Gio brought me something unexpected.

“Boss,” he said, handing me a black flash drive. “One of the rats from Paolo’s crew was trying to sell this to Ricci. Said it had surveillance. From inside the mansion.”

My blood iced over.

“From where?”

“He wouldn’t say. But I cracked it. You need to see this.”

We plugged it into the projector in the war room.

The footage flickered to life—grainy. Low-res. From a hidden camera angle.

I recognized the room instantly.

My study.

Private. Supposed to be secure.

I watched myself enter the frame. Sit. Pour whiskey. Talk to Enzo.

Routine stuff.

Until the date changed.

The next recording showed me gone… and Isabella entering the study.

She moved quickly. Deliberate. Straight to the bookshelf. Pulled out one specific volume. Opened it.

Inside—blueprints.

Of the mansion.

Security rotations. Panic room access. Escape tunnels.

She didn’t hesitate.

She took pictures. All of it.

Then she left.

The clip ended.

I stared at the blank screen.

My lungs didn’t work.

She’d said she was mine.

But she’d lied.

I didn’t confront her right away.

I wanted to.

My rage demanded it.

But I’ve learned that fury burns fast—and stupid.

So I waited.

I watched.

And I planned.

The next morning, I asked her to come to breakfast. She showed up in silk and a smile, pouring espresso like nothing had happened.

No guilt.

No tells.

She was better than I thought.

And maybe that was the most dangerous thing about her.

“Sleep well?” I asked, calm.

“Well enough,” she said. “You?”

“I dreamed of knives,” I said. “All of them pointed at my back.”

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

“You’ve always lived that way,” she said, sipping her coffee. “Even before me.”

She wasn’t wrong.

But she wasn’t clean, either.

I gave the flash drive to Gio.

“Keep it quiet,” I said. “If she’s still playing sides, I want to know who she’s selling to.”

“And if she’s not?”

I didn’t answer.

Because if she wasn’t selling me out…

Then she was preparing to leave.

And in this life?

You don’t walk away from a DiCarlo.

Not alive.

That night, she vanished.

I searched the mansion—nothing. No guards had seen her leave. No surveillance caught her exit.

But her closet was untouched. Her passport still in the safe. Her phone on the nightstand.

It didn’t make sense.

Until Viktor walked in, pale.

“Boss,” he said, “we’ve got eyes on her. Downtown. Abandoned church on the east end.”

“What the hell is she doing there?”

He swallowed. “Meeting someone.”

“Who?”

“We don’t know. But she’s armed.”

I grabbed my coat and my Glock.

And headed out into the night.

The church was a skeleton of its former self—charred beams, shattered glass, roof open to the stars.

I moved through the shadows, silent.

From the rear balcony, I spotted her.

Isabella stood at the altar like a bride in mourning.

Facing her was a man.

Broad. Bearded. Tattoos on his hands.

I didn’t recognize him—but she did.

“You said you’d never come back,” she hissed.

“I said I’d stay away as long as you stayed out of the game,” he growled. “But you broke that.”

“You don’t get to lecture me.”

“I trained you, Isabella. I raised you. And now you’re sleeping in the lion’s den?”

“He’s not the lion,” she said coldly. “He’s the knife.”

The man stepped closer. “You think you’re safe with him?”

“I’m not safe anywhere. You know that.”

He hesitated. Then reached for her.

Not a threat. Something gentler.

She let him.

And that’s when I realized—

This wasn’t business.

It was personal.

I stepped forward, gun raised.

“Move again,” I said, voice cutting through the night, “and I’ll put a bullet between your eyes.”

They both turned.

Isabella’s face didn’t change.

But his did.

“Luca DiCarlo,” he said. “You’re shorter than I imagined.”

“Not when I’m standing over your grave.”

He grinned. “Cute.”

“Who is he?” I asked Isabella, never lowering my gun.

She hesitated.

Then—

“My brother.”

The words hit like a punch.

“Excuse me?”

She stepped forward. “His name’s Rafael. He raised me after our father sold us to a cartel. He got me out.”

Rafael nodded. “She saved my life, too. We were clean. Until you.”

I looked between them.

My world tilting.

“You were spying on me,” I said slowly. “Taking photos. Selling intel?”

“No,” Isabella said. “I was planning escape routes. In case Matteo stormed the gates.”

“And the study camera?”

“Your house was bugged before I arrived,” she said. “By Matteo. I found one. I had to trace it—find out who planted it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t know if I could trust you.”

Silence.

Thick. Raw.

“I let you in,” I said. “You saw everything. And still, you kept your secrets.”

She stepped closer. “And you haven’t?”

Another silence.

Then I lowered the gun.

But not my guard.

Not yet.

Rafael left without a word.

And Isabella?

She followed me home.

Not because she had to.

Because she chose to.

That meant something.

But not enough.

Not yet.

Back in the mansion, she stood by the fire while I poured bourbon.

Finally, I asked, “Are there more?”

“Secrets?” she said. “Yes.”

“How many?”

She turned. “Enough to burn us both.”

I sipped the drink. “Then start talking.”

She met my gaze.

And said the one thing I never expected.

“I used to work for Matteo.”

Silence.

“You what?”

“Years ago. Before Colombia. Before everything. I was part of his network. Moved weapons. Cleaned money. I was a ghost in his system.”

“And now?”

“Now,” she said, stepping close, “I want him dead as much as you do.”

“Why?”

“Because he put a price on my brother’s head. Because he made me disappear. And because he’s the reason I lost everything I used to be.”

She touched my face.

And for once, I didn’t pull away.

“We can finish this,” she whispered. “Together.”

I didn’t respond.

But I didn’t walk away either.

That was the first step.

Toward something brutal.

Toward something real.