Later, my office is thick with cigarette smoke and midnight quiet. The city is a dark pulse outside my window, the skyline slashed with neon and headlights. I sit at my desk, the glass ofvodka untouched at my elbow, replaying every moment of the night: Isabella’s nervous smile, Matteo’s snarling bravado, the careful way she’d measured every answer.
She didn’t just look scared. She looked… guilty.
I’ve seen fear before, a thousand kinds of it. Hers didn’t fit. It was sharper, tinged with something closer to anticipation. Something that said she wasn’t just running from danger—she was running toward something too.
The door creaks. Lukyan steps in, the scent of aftershave and coffee preceding him. He stands in the doorway, one brow cocked in mock concern.
“You’re distracted,” he says, voice teasing but with an edge. “Did she turn you down?”
I ignore the bait, taking another slow drag from my cigarette. “She’s not like the others.”
He laughs, slumping into the chair across from me. “None of them are, until they are.” His eyes sharpen. “You want me to run her name?”
“I already did.” I stub out the cigarette, pulling my phone from my pocket. “I want you to keep an ear out. If anyone mentions the surname Rossi—or anything that doesn’t add up—let me know.”
He studies me for a moment, then shrugs, accepting the unspoken order. “You’re the one who said women are trouble, Brother. Don’t let this one bite you in the ass.”
He leaves me with the city and my doubts.
I make a quiet call to my tech man, Roman, who never sleeps and knows every digital corner of New York. “IsabellaRossi,” I say. “Gallery work, Manhattan. I want everything. Now.”
The hours tick by, the city growing stiller as I wait. I pour myself another drink, ignore it, and stare at my reflection in the window.
I can’t get her out of my head. Her face, her laugh, the way her composure slipped for a moment when she came back to the table. The tension—it wasn’t the simple panic of being seen with a Bratva man. It was the deeper, old-bone kind of guilt. She’s hiding something, and whatever it is, it runs deep.
***
Roman’s message pings near three in the morning. I open the file expecting the usual: school, family, tax records, lovers, debts.
Instead, there’s nothing. A birth certificate, a degree, an address—each one too clean, too recent, too perfect. The earliest record is three years old. No childhood photos, no high school, no family. Just a blank page where a life should be.
I read the summary again:No family, no past. She just appeared three years ago.
I sit back, letting the silence gather, a slow smirk curving my mouth. Nobody just appears out of nowhere. Not in my city.
I close my eyes, letting her name echo in my head, rolling it over and over. Isabella Rossi—gallery girl, poised liar, riddle wrapped in silk. Whatever she’s running from, she’s made the mistake of drawing my attention.
I spend the early hours drifting between memories of Isabella’s face and the lines of Roman’s blank report. The cityhums in the far distance: horns, sirens, the restless pulse of a place that never gives up its secrets easily.
My mind spins with possibilities: undercover cop, rival’s spy, someone fleeing a past as dark as my own. The way she moved, the way she lied with a smile that’s too polished, too careful. Whatever story she’s telling, it isn’t the truth.
I get up, pace the length of the office, smoke curling around my fists. Every instinct says walk away. Every instinct also knows a riddle is a challenge. And she’s the most interesting puzzle I’ve seen in years.
As dawn threatens the horizon, I dial Roman again. “Keep watching her,” I say, voice gravelly with fatigue. “I want to know everywhere she goes. Who she meets. If you find a real name, call me, no matter the hour.”
Hanging up, I stare at the city beyond the glass. Isabella Rossi. Whoever she is, whatever she’s hiding, she won’t stay invisible for long. Not with me watching.
Chapter Eleven - Isabella
His estate is nothing like I imagined. Behind iron gates and a half mile of winding driveway, the house rises out of old trees and sculpted stone, as if it’s been waiting here for centuries. Too grand to be new, too immaculate to be old. Like everything else about Emil Sharov, it sits on the border of two worlds.
I arrive just before sunset, the sky still warm but shadows creeping in. A stone-faced guard waves me through, speaking softly into a headset. I keep my shoulders squared, hands folded in my lap as the car winds up the drive. I remind myself:this is what I wanted.Answers. Evidence. I can’t afford to let my nerves show.
Inside, a maid in crisp black leads me to the lounge. She calls it the blue salon, but there’s nothing soft about it: high ceilings, carved moldings, velvet that swallows sound. Sunlight lingers on the silver trays and heavy glass vases, all of it staged like an auction preview. I sink into the edge of a settee, back straight, heart pounding. The house smells of clean linen, polished wood, something sharp and expensive underneath.
Emil isn’t here yet. Some emergency meeting, the housekeeper murmurs, apologetic but brisk. He’ll return soon. Would I like anything to drink? I shake my head, voice steady, and thank her. She leaves me with a silence so thick it’s almost physical.
I wait ten minutes, maybe twenty, legs crossed tight, mind racing. I try to focus on the room—on the art, the silk, the subtle cues of wealth—but everything feels wrong. I feel watched. Judged. Like the house itself is suspicious, waiting for me to make a mistake.
