I feel my heart collapse in on itself. The confirmation leaves me breathless, even though I thought I was prepared for it. I stare at the ground, forcing myself to swallow the pain, the old, raw ache in my chest flaring anew. I want to scream, to cry, to demand the truth be undone.
Vittorio glances at me, his eyes shining with grief he’ll never let the world see. “He was too trusting, Isabella. He thought he could outsmart them. He paid the price.”
He opens the car door, waiting for me to get in. My legs move without my permission, numb and wooden. I slide into the back seat, folding my hands in my lap, knuckles white against the dark silk of my dress.
The city rushes past in a blur outside the window, lights smearing into ribbons of color. I try to focus on the anger, on the righteous fury that should carry me through this moment.EmilSharov: enemy, liar, murderer.I repeat it over and over in my mind, trying to make it real.
My thoughts keep drifting to the terrace, to his mouth at my ear, the warmth of his hand.
What’s wrong with me? I should hate him. I do hate him.
Even now, part of me aches for what could never be—for the spark of something fierce and alive that I feel only with him. The realization makes me sick with shame. Emil is the reason my brother is gone.
He’s also the only man who’s ever made me feel anything real.
I close my eyes, letting the ache wash over me. I tell myself that next time, I’ll be ready. Next time, I’ll make him pay.
***
The hum of the engine fills the space between us.
Uncle Vittorio’s shoulders are rigid, hands clenched white around his cane.
I stare straight ahead, eyes fixed on the dark city sliding past the window, my mind spiraling around his admission:Yes, they were behind his death.The words are a knife I keep turning in my own chest.
After a long minute, Vittorio finally speaks. His voice is low, rough around the edges. “You know, your brother always thought he was smarter than the Russians. He believed he could play both sides.”
I force myself to look at him, though my throat feels too tight for words. “Did he… did he tell you anything before—?” The rest sticks, but I push through. “Before he died?”
He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He thought he could trust one of them. That was his mistake.” His eyes meet mine, grief burning through the anger. “You cannot trust a Sharov. Not now. Not ever.”
I swallow, pressing my hands together in my lap to hide their shaking. “But…” I hesitate, searching for something that makes sense. “If you knew, why didn’t you do something? Why didn’t you?”
Vittorio’s mouth tightens. “We tried, Isabella. There are rules in this world. Wars cost lives. Sometimes you have to wait for the right moment.” His voice cracks on the last word, and I see how tired he is, how much Enzo’s death broke him.
The streetlights paint harsh shadows over his face as we drive. He looks older than I remember, haunted.
“I just… I wish I’d been able to say goodbye,” I whisper, voice shaking.
Vittorio is quiet for a moment, then lays his hand over mine, surprisingly gentle. “Enzo loved you. He never wanted you in the middle of this. I don’t want you in it either.” His grip tightens. “Promise me you’ll stay away from the Sharovs. Especially Emil. He’s dangerous.”
A bitter laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”
He turns, searching my face, and for a second I wonder if he saw what happened tonight. if he saw Emil’s hand on my wrist, the way I melted and burned and froze all at once.
He just shakes his head, jaw clenched. “You’re all I have left, Isabella. Don’t make me lose you too.”
I nod, blinking back tears. “I promise,” I say, knowing it’s a lie, but needing to give him something, One small mercy, even if it’s hollow.
The rest of the ride is silent. I watch the lights slide past, each one a heartbeat, each one a reminder that I can’t run from this war, or from the storm Emil Sharov has set loose inside me.
When we reach the estate, Vittorio squeezes my hand once more before I slip out into the cold. “Good night,cara mia. Rest while you can.”
Upstairs, I close my door and let the tears fall, torn between grief, fury, and the dangerous ache of wanting the man I should hate most in the world.
Chapter Fourteen - Emil
The days that follow are a study in discipline—mine, and hers. Rage simmers beneath my skin, cold and patient, refusing to boil over.
