I pour two fingers of vodka and let the glass sweat against my palm. The ice crackles, bright in the hush. My mind cyclesthrough the night’s events, through Isabella’s wide, furious eyes and the way her voice caught when she realized just how thoroughly she’d lost. That kind of defeat lingers.
The door opens without a knock. Dimitri slides in, loose-limbed but all focus. He closes the door and leans back against it, arms folded, face unreadable.
“Vittorio kept his mouth shut at the party,” he says. “Wouldn’t risk a scene in front of the Pedros, but he was shaking. Didn’t even look at you as you left, but that won’t last. He won’t let this go, Emil.”
I smirk and raise my glass, unbothered. “He’ll try. He always does, but he’ll fail.”
Dimitri comes closer, voice dropping. “It’s different this time. Especially considering…” He hesitates, eyes flicking up to mine. “Considering your past with the Brunos.”
I hold his gaze, letting the silence spool out. The only sound is the click of the glass as I set it down, the echo of old wars I never quite finished. My past with the Brunos: Enzo, the endless rivalry, the night everything changed and the price I’m still paying.
Dimitri shifts, but doesn’t push. He knows better.
After a long moment, the room falls quiet again, the shadows lengthening across the desk. I glance down at my hands, at the pale scars that cut across my knuckles, and mutter to myself, too soft for anyone but me to hear.
“Enzo… that bastard. He died but left me this mess.”
The words hang in the air, sharp as broken glass. Outside, the city keeps breathing. Inside, I let myself feel the weight ofwhat’s coming, just for a moment, before I pour another drink and get back to work.
Chapter Seventeen - Isabella
I wake tangled in silk sheets, heart thudding, every muscle drawn tight. For a moment, I don’t know where I am. There’s a heavy hush over everything, the kind of silence that throbs in the bones.
The air is too sweet—perfume I used to love, now cloying, filling my head with nausea. When I push the covers back, the mattress sighs beneath me, expensive and unyielding. Even the sunlight leaking around the curtains feels off, filtered, cold.
I roll to my side and stare at the door. Ornate, dark, and locked. I know it’s locked because I tried it last night. Tried the handle over and over until my palms ached and the echo of the latch rang down the hall.
Now I hear footsteps outside: careful, measured. Too heavy for my uncle’s staff. Too unfamiliar for comfort.
I push myself upright. My body aches, throat raw. The room is beautiful: huge, high-ceilinged, lined in velvet and gilt. There’s a vase of pale peonies on the dresser, their scent too sharp, already turning. The window is wide, offering a view of green lawns and a sprawl of city beyond.
The glass is thick, the latch locked from the outside. I remember this room in daylight—how, as a guest, I once admired the garden’s symmetry, the white roses climbing the trellis, the lazy sway of sycamores. Now all I see are the walls. The garden is unreachable.
Somewhere deeper in the mansion, a door closes with a dull, distant thud. I freeze, listening. Voices drift up from below: staff, maybe, speaking Russian. The words are muffled, theirrhythm quick. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but I know the shape of avoidance. Nobody here will look me in the eye.
A knock at the door. I flinch. The handle turns just enough for the maid to slip in, head bowed, hands trembling as she balances a breakfast tray. She sets it down on the table by the window: eggs, toast, coffee, fresh fruit, all gleaming on heavy silver.
She doesn’t meet my gaze. Her uniform is crisp, her movements efficient, but I see the way her fingers tremble when she pours the coffee. Maybe pity. Maybe fear.
“Your breakfast, miss.”
I want to ask her for help, want to say something sharp or pleading, but the words stick. What could I possibly say?Please, save me from the man who owns this house, from my own blood, from myself?
Instead I swallow thickly and say, “Thank you.”
The maid slips out, the door locking behind her. I hear the bolt slide home. I’m alone again.
The food is too rich. I force down a bite of toast, chewing mechanically, refusing to let anyone—staff, guards, Emil himself—see me fall apart. I sip the coffee, but it turns sour in my mouth.
My hands are steady only because I will them to be.
The silence swells. I try to breathe through it, but every sound is magnified: the creak of the floor, the distant hum of the house’s generator, the quiet scuff of shoes down the hall. Even my own heartbeat feels too loud.
I can’t stop replaying last night, every detail spliced together until it all aches: Vittorio’s voice, cold and final, cutting through the din of the party.
“You’re all I have left, Isabella. Don’t make me lose you too.”The look in his eyes when Emil’s hands were on me: disgust, disappointment, maybe even relief.
His silence as the doors slammed behind me, as the family closed ranks and the guards turned away. Over and over, the echo of being cast out. Betrayed by the only person I still hoped would fight for me.
