Dawn at the mansion came earlier than Isabela had expected. Her alarm buzzed low and sharp, cutting into the fragile silence in her room. She groaned softly, burying her face in her pillow. Peeling the thick warmth of the blanket away from her body, she stepped on the stone cold floor, causing a chill to quickly run through her spine.
She moved through the room by memory— years of repetition carving the paths from the bed to the dresser into something instinctual. Pulling on her training clothes— a dark fitted T-shirt and worn dark sweatpants— she tied her hair back into a tight braid. Her fingers deft and practiced.
The mansion behind her door was till asleep. It always was, at this hour. She made her way downstairs where to her surprise, Don Emilio stood under the massive iron chandelier— not alone but flanked by six of his men. They were all dressed in black suits and their expressions were unreadable.
A sleek black travel bag rested at his feet. Another one sat waiting by the door.
"Get your coat," Don Emilio said the moment he saw her, his voice cutting through the thick morning bush.
Isabela blinked, thrown off. "Where are we going?"
He smiled slightly— that calm, heavy smile that never gave anything away.
"Italy," he said simply. "Time for a different kind of training.
One of the men handed her a passport she had never seen before— her name printed neatly in embossed letters, a different last name attached.
She took the passport and took a long deep breath.
"I should eat something before we leave, right?" Isabela said, unsure.
"We're leaving now. You can eat something on the flight."
Isabela shook her head slightly, disbelief pulling at her features.
'Why does he always do this? No warning, no explanations. Just—move," she thought bitterly.
It was not the first time Don Emilio had made a sudden decision that spun her off her axis and she doubted it would be her last.
'Why now? What's waiting for me there that he can't teach me here?" She wondered.
But she already knew the answer, deep down— even if he never said it out loud.
Because the world wasn't kind.
Because comfort made you slow.
Because sooner or later, she would have to be sharper than the steel she carried.
She pulled her coat tighter around herself as she crossed the wide marble floor toward the front door. Don Emily just stood there, calm as stone.
Her footsteps slowed the closer she got to him. The passport in her hand felt heavier now.
She opened her mouth, the words forming before she could stop them.
"Why?"
It sat there, burning the tip of her tongue. A simple question. A thousand complicated answers.
Don Emilio met her eyes with the same steady unreadable look. Knowing he wasn't going to answer that she just rolled her eyes and walked past him to the car.
The black SUV hummed quietly as they pulled away from the mansion.
Isabela sat in the back with Don Emilio. The interior smelled faintly of leather and the clean sharpness of the cold air.
Neither of them spoke. The city was still asleep around them, the streets bathed in the soft, gloom of the approaching morning,
The world outside the tinted window blurred into shadow and mist. She leaned her head back against the seat, eyes half closed, the exhaustion of the early hour tugging at her.
Still her mind whirred relentlessly: Italy. Training. Why?
It wasn't long before the road opened into a secluded gate, guarded by men in dark uniforms.
They barely glanced at the car before letting it in.
Beyond the gate stretched a private airfield, silent and gleaming under rows of pale floodlights.
And along the tarmac—
Jets.
Not one or two.
Seven, maybe eight. Sleek, gleaming, monstrous things that looked like they belonged to kings or warlords, not some quiet, aging man like Don Emilio.
Isabela pressed her head against the cold glass of the window, staring.
How?
She wondered, not for the first time, what kind of like Don Emilio led before she crashed into it.
What kind of deals he made, what promises had he broken, and possibly what kind of blood had been spilled to but that many wings tethered to the earth.
Because no one had this much— not without a cost.
The car came to a smooth stop beside one of the jets, a sleek black beauty whose engine was already humming with quiet power.
The door was opened by one of the mean and Don Emilio stepped out first before she followed. Her boots hitting the tarmac with a soft thud.
The wind whipped at her clothes, cold and smelling faintly of jet fuel.
She straightened her shoulders, glancing once more at the line of private planes shimmering under the flood lights.
Whatever world Don Emilio came from—she was in it now.
And there was no getting out.
The flight to Italy passed in a haze of silence and exhaustion.
The jet's interior was immaculate—soft leather seats, dark polished woods, low and warm lighting that barely cut through the hum of engine and the door the air hostess served was delicious.
When they finally landed, the sun was rising over Rome in wide golden sheets, staining the sky and ancient city below in a breathtaking color.
There was a car waiting for them on the tarmac, it was another sleek vehicle with tinted glasses. The driver nodded respectfully to Don Emilio but said nothing.
They drive through the awakening streets of Rome, where narrow alleys spilled into grand piazzas and the smell of fresh bread and espresso filled the air.
Isabela stared out the window, taking all in— the crumbling beauty, the chaotic tangle of old and new.
When the car finally stopped,it was in front of a towering five star hotel— all gleaming glass and elegant white stone. There were doormen in sharp uniforms waiting at the entrance.
Isabela blinked up at it, momentarily thrown,
'This doesn't look like a training camp."
They were ushered inside, their bags whisked away and within minutes, they were stepping into a sprawling penthouse suite that looked like something out of a dream.
Floor to ceiling windows bathed the room in warm light. Plush sofas, golden chandeliers, marble floors and a balcony that overlooked the heart of Ancient Rome itself.
Frowning slightly, Isabela turned to Don Emilio. "So…when does the training start?" She asked, suspicion laced in her voice,
Don Emilio chuckled— a rare, genuine sound— as he shrugged off his coat and threw it in a nearby chair.
"There's no training," he said, a twinkle of amusement in his voice.
"You're lying," she immediately said, narrowing her eyes at him.
He held up a hand as if swearing an oath. "No training. Not this time Isa. This is vacation. A real one"
Isabela starred at him, stunned. " But— you said…."
"I know what I said," he smoothly interrupted, sitting down and reaching for the room service menu. "If I had told you we were coming for a vacation, you would have been suspicious the entire flight. You would have thought it was some test. This way, your relax properly."
Isabela's mouth opened. And closed. And opened again. She had no words.
Vacation?
Rome?
No drills? No bruises?
She eyed him warily, half-expecting him to doing some cruel trick on her. But Don Emilio was busily browsing though the breakfast menu, looking far too casual for this to be a set up.
"You've earned it," he said without looking at her. " And besides, even warriors must learn to enjoy the world they fight to survive in.
Isabela stood there for a long moment, the weight of constant training and suspicion finally, finally loosening just a little her chest.
Vacation.
Maybe for once, she could just be a fourteen year old girl.
She threw herself into the sofa with a groan. "Fine," she muttered into the seats, a small smile tugging up her lips.
"But I'm eating enough pasta to bankrupt you."
Don Emilio only chuckled.
"Fai pure, Picciridda," — Be my guest, kiddo.
He said. "Fai pure."
There was a soft knock on the door, and a moment later, a hotel staff member wheeled in a silver cart piled high with food.
The rich smells of bread, roasted meat, fresh fruits and strong coffee filled the room like a slow, delicious wave.
Isabela quickly sat up, blinking as the gleaming trays were uncovered one by one.
Her stomach growled, loud enough that Don Emilio gave a rare laughter under his breath.
"Eat," he simply said, gesturing towards the cart. "And after get some rest. No alarms. No bruises either," he added accepting a cup of coffee from the server with a nod.
Isabela slid off the sofa, making her way over, but still cautious, half- wondering if it was part of an elaborate trick. But the food looked too good, to real to doubt for long.