The Judas Signal

Caleb went out to the porch to make the call. The wind had died down to a sullen moan, though the rain still fell in sheets of grey.

He dialed the Don’s private line.

"Moretti."

"It's Vance," Caleb said. "I lost her."

Silence on the line. Then, a low growl. "You're the Hound, Vance. You don't lose the scent."

"The storm washed out the tracks near the state line. She must have switched cars. I'm doubling back to Omaha, but... it's cold."

"Find her," Moretti hissed. "Or don't bother coming back."

The line clicked dead. Caleb lowered the phone. His hands were shaking, but he felt lighter. He had done it. He had severed the leash.

He walked back inside, shaking the ice from his coat. "It's done. We leave in ten minutes."

"Perfect," Isabella called out from the kitchen.

Caleb walked toward the bedroom to grab his duffel bag. As he passed the pile of Isabella’s gear by the door, he saw it.

Her boot was tipped over. Tucked deep inside the lining, flashing silently, was a second phone.

Caleb stopped. The hunter instinct, dormant for the last forty-eight hours, snapped awake with a roar.

He picked up the phone. It was a burner. He swiped the screen. No passcode.

The text thread was open. The contact was saved simply as *K*. Kirillov. The head of the Russian bratva—the sworn enemies of the Moretti family. The rivals of the cartel she was supposed to marry into.

**Isabella:** *The Hound bought it. We're at the safehouse. GPS coordinates attached.*

**K:** *ETA 20 minutes. Keep him occupied. No witnesses.*

**Isabella:** *Just hurry. I want this over. I want my throne.*

Caleb stared at the screen. The letters blurred.

She wasn't running from an arranged marriage. She wasn't running to be free. She was defecting. She was selling the diamonds—and her father’s secrets—to the Russians to buy an army. She was going to take the Moretti family down and rule the ashes.

And he? He was just the bodyguard. The useful idiot to keep her safe until the cavalry arrived.

* No witnesses.*

"Caleb?" Isabella’s voice came from the hallway. "You ready?"

Caleb slowly put the phone back in the boot. He stood up. The cold in his chest was worse than the storm outside. It was the absolute zero of a man who realizes he never really mattered.

He walked into the hallway. Isabella was standing there, zipping up her jacket. She smiled at him—that same beautiful, hopeful smile.

"We should go," she said. "Before the roads get worse."

"Yeah," Caleb said. His voice was dead. "Let's go."

Suddenly, high beams cut through the living room curtains. Tires crunched on the gravel driveway. Lots of them.

Isabella’s eyes lit up. Not with fear, but with triumph.

"They found us," Caleb said, drawing his weapon.

"Caleb, wait—" she started, feigning panic.

"Get down!" he roared, shoving her behind the heavy oak sofa.

He didn't do it because he loved her. Not anymore. He did it because he was a professional. And because, in a twisted way, he wanted to see how far she would take the lie.