She was standing right here.
I run my fingers across the wall, my chest expanding as I inhale the lingering scent. Isabella was here. At some point during my conversation with Leo, I knew she was close by, but I wasn’t sure how close.
Her scent floated in the air, enveloping the living room…a distraction that flooded my thoughts and made breathing impossible.
When I confessed, “I need her,” those weren’t the words I’d wanted to say. I had some other excuse to give, anything that would keep Leo from knowing how I felt. But all I could see was her pout, the stubborn tilt of her chin, and her frustration when she tried to cut into the steak.
Dinner. Something as simple as dinner was enough to force the truth out of my mouth. I didn’t explain any further, but it was enough for Leo.
“Are you planning on repainting?” he asks as he walks up to me now, peering closely at the wall. “If you are, then I think you should go for a lighter color. Or, you know…” He shrugs. “Ask your wife what she’d like? It’s her house too.”
My eyes narrow as I turn to him. He raises his hands and steps back. “It was just a suggestion. You don’t have to take it.” But his lips curl in a teasing smile. “I’m starving,” he adds. “I’m going to see if there’s anything to eat. Do you want something?”
Yes. A glass of whiskey.
I’d take anything to drown out my thoughts.
I ignore his question and walk away, reaching the kitchen before he can follow. My hands move automatically as I grab a glass, but something outside catches my eye. A flash of hair swaying lazily in the breeze outside the window. Then I hear it—soft, irritated.
“Shit.”
My brows knit. “Isabella?”
Another mutter follows, full of frustration. “Hot. Hot. Freaking hot.”
Instinct kicks in. I grab a pack of ice from the freezer and cut through the kitchen, down the utility hallway, and out onto the balcony.
There she is—perched like a painting, knees drawn up and mouth puckered as she blows air with furious little huffs. Her face is twisted in discomfort, hands flapping like she’s trying to cool the burn on her tongue.
And even at this moment, half in pain, she steals the breath from my lungs.
“You need something cold,” I say as I drop beside her, grabbing her foot before she can protest. She tries, her lips parting and her brows knitting, but the relief from the ice pack is instant.
She sighs, and her shoulders droop as her eyes close. “That feels good.” My lips curl in a smile. She opens her eyes. “How did you know I needed that?”
Because I heard her. No. I smelled her. Even when I walked into the kitchen, in the seconds before I caught the whisper of her hair, I smelled her still.
“You might end up amputating something one of these days,” I say, scolding her lightly.
Isabella laughs, and it bubbles out, wrapping around me, bright and careless.
Tossing her hair, she shrugs. “I know, right? I couldn’t sleep and I thought maybe some tea would help. But I should’ve known better—I had no clue what valerian tea tasted like. Then I tried it”—she tosses a hand toward the cup in exaggerated offense—“and I could’ve sworn I shoved sweaty socks down my throat.”
I chuckle, low and unguarded. At the same time, my hand reaches for her foot. I graze her Achilles heel lightly, and my thumb drifts to her ankle. Her skin is warm and soft, and when she lets out a quiet moan, her lips parting just slightly, I stop breathing.
I shouldn’t be doing this.
It’s too intimate. Too dangerous.
“You just need to keep the ice pack on it for a couple of minutes,” I say roughly, forcing the words out of my throat as I drop her foot carefully. “The pain should ease up.”
She nods. “Okay.”
I pull myself up, averting my eyes when she sighs again.
“I overheard you and Leo talking,” Isabella whispers. I look over my shoulder; my expression schooled to hide the parts she might not have heard. “I didn’t mean to, but I was going to the kitchen and then…yeah.”
She lets out a breathy, nervous laugh when I don’t say anything.
“It’s fine,” she says with a shake of her head. “I didn’t hear much. Just…you know, what you wanted to do to my father.” She lifts her brows, trying for levity, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Which is something I already know. Right?”
Her voice wavers at the end like she’s bracing herself, hoping I’ll deny it, even though the truth’s already settled in her chest like a stone.
“Again…” She waves her hands. “It’s fine. You said it’s a blood oath. I understand that. A life for a life and whatever the rules say.”
In the months that have passed since my father died, not once have I thought about sparing Marco Ricci. But watching Isabella struggle not to fall apart, I feel my first shred of mercy for him.
“You should’ve gone for eucalyptus,” I say, instead of allowing myself a moment of weakness. I’ve already done it once tonight. “It works better.”
She nods slowly, hinting at my cover-up, but she doesn’t push. “Okay.”
“I’ll make some for you,” I offer, walking away. It’s the least I can do before I take the only family she has left. As I turn on the stove and place a kettle on it, Isabella walks into the kitchen. She settles by the island quietly, her fingers tapping on the surface. The silence that stretches between us feels oddly strange and uncomfortable, begging to be filled.
What do I say?
Sorry?
I’m not sorry for holding up the terms of a contract that was broken. I’m not apologetic for going ahead with my revenge.
I do feel sorry, though. More than I thought I would when I started out.
“I wanted to be an astronaut.”
I turn. “Astronaut?”
She nods, a small smile on her lips. “Yeah. It was a short-lived dream, but I stumbled on a book about the moon when I was very young. For some reason, it fascinated me. I thought about how amazing it’d be to walk on it.” Her smile spreads, and I watch nostalgia fill her eyes.
It lasts the lifespan of a flickering light bulb before it dies. Isabella sighs, her face shuttering. “I was nine.” She laughs bitterly. “I didn’t know anything about the real world. But I was determined, so I had my father’s driver take me to the library, where I read as many books as possible.” She shakes her head. “Some words were too complicated, but I read them anyway.”
I try to picture her as a child, poring through books in a library, her eyes shining with enthusiasm and excitement. She would’ve been the most adorable thing.
“Then he found out,” she says. “He said it was foolish. I fought stupidly and hid one book in my room. Until he found that too. Then, when I was eleven, he took me to a shooting range. It was punishment for going into my mother’s room, but he was also punishing me for defying his orders.”
Shooting range? Eleven? I grew up knowing the bratva was my life, that I would head the organization after my father retired, but I didn’t have any other dreams.
I wasn’t forced to learn how to shoot or defend myself. I wanted to.
“I tossed the book outside in anger.” Isabella’s voice falters as she continues, her gaze staring straight into nothing. “I convinced myself that he was right. He was my father, the only parent I had left. So, I devoted my life to pleasing him. I was his perfect, loyal daughter, and if I inherited everything he built, I would be grateful that I got the chance.”
Fuck. Fucking hell. The kettle whistles, and I turn off the stove and grab the handle. I don’t let go or lift it, even as the steam burns my palm.
Killing Marco Ricci means avenging my father, but I wouldn’t mind putting a second bullet through his head for Isabella.
For the childhood he stole from her.
“Anyways.” She laughs as she blinks, refocusing in my direction, her hand dismissing everything. “I thought we could do with some small talk while you made tea.”
She hops off the chair and gets two mugs while I look for the eucalyptus tea. I pour for us both and move to the adjoining dining table while she remains at the counter.
“What about you?” Isabella asks as I take a sip. I lower the mug slowly, and she shrugs. “I’m curious. Did you always grow up knowing you’d join the bratva? Did you ever think about leaving—at any point?”
I shake my head.
She laughs again, but it doesn’t reach her eyes this time either. “I’m not surprised. You’re pretty determined. I couldn’t even go through with an escape plan. You would’ve braved the heat and found somewhere to stay through the storm.”
“I’m not sure I would’ve,” I say softly. “It rained pretty bad.”
Her lips twitch with her first genuine smile since we walked into the kitchen. “If you’re trying to make me feel better, it’s not working. I don’t know what I was thinking—getting into the back of a van and hiding in a barrel. I should’ve known that when he said farm, it’d be a place that vast.” She’s talking to herself now, staring down at her cup.
I want to praise her for her attempt, but the image of Isabella shivering next to that shed, her face almost blue, comes to mind. The moment when I came close to losing her…when I truly realized that I couldn’t let her go.
She lifts the mug to her lips, taking an audible sip. “You were right,” she says. “I should’ve gone for this. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She hesitates, her fingers tapping on the rim, but my ears are perked up, waiting for her question. “Did you go back to check on Mickey?”
My brow furrows. Mickey? Then it hits me—the jittery man from the vintage store. Her eyes flick to mine, searching, her body rigid with restraint.
“Leo didn’t tell me anything,” she rushes on. “Just like I didn’t tell you Mickey was working for my dad—but you found out.” She laughs without humor, shaking her head. “I went to see him because…I don’t know. Maybe I thought he’d tell me something useful. But when I was leaving, I saw one of my father’s men walk in.”
Her voice drops to a whisper as she bites her lower lip, teeth sinking into the soft flesh like she’s bracing herself for impact.
“Is he…dead?” she asks.
I don’t know. I ended the lead when I found out Marco had planned an ambush. But if she saw her father’s man there, the odds are that Marco disposed of his loose end. Just like he’s going to do with Igor. I shouldn’t feel sympathy for Mickey—he chose to work with a man like that.
Yet—
It’s Isabella. She’s found a way through my defenses and made me more human. More…emotional. “Yes,” I say roughly, hating how it makes me feel. “He’s probably dead. And every other lead I uncovered that belongs to your father is dead too.”
Her bottom lip trembles before she presses it tight as if trying to swallow the heartbreak whole. For a second, I think she’ll cry—her eyes shine, her throat bobs—but then she straightens, nodding with a quiet resolve that doesn’t match the pain in her expression.
“I see,” she whispers, voice brittle. Her fingers clench tighter around the mug, clinging to it. “I see. Why did I expect something else? He’s a hypocrite, after all.”
As I am. I pretend that I feel nothing, watching her struggle, but I do. Every time her lashes flutter in a desperate attempt to hold back tears, I feel it. And hate how much I feel it.
How much I see her.
“I should go.” My chair drags against the floor as I stand. “Goodnight, Isabella.”
She nods, her eyes downcast.
I walk past her, my jaw tucked in tight and my steps brisk, widening the distance between us until she’s nothing more than a thought burrowed deep in my head.
