The truth rips through me, shattering every story I ever told myself about who the villain was. I stagger back, pressing a hand to my mouth, breath coming in shallow gasps.
My mind reels with memories: Enzo’s gentle voice, the secret heaviness in his eyes, the way he hugged me a little too tightly the last time I saw him. I thought I knew who to blame. I thought I could draw a line—Bratva, Bruno, enemy, family. Now the line is gone.
My voice is a whisper. “You tried to help him.”
He nods, exhaustion lining his features. “I did. I failed. And then Vittorio pinned it on me, made sure you’d never trust me, made sure you’d hate me enough to keep away.”
Guilt, pain, and confusion crash through me, each sharp as a broken bone. For so long I clung to the rage, the certainty that Emil was my brother’s killer. Now I see the truth: the only person who ever tried to protect Enzo’s dream—the dream of peace—was the man I’ve spent months plotting to destroy.
I stand frozen, tears streaming down my face. The air between us is thick with everything unsaid: apologies that will never be enough, forgiveness I don’t know how to give, the weight of all the wrong choices. I want to scream, to hit him, to run away, but my feet stay rooted to the marble.
Emil steps closer, slow and careful, like he’s afraid I’ll shatter for good this time. His hand reaches for my shoulder, then hesitates, fingers brushing the fabric of my dress. “I’m sorry, Isabella. For everything I put you through. For letting you believe I was your enemy.”
His words don’t erase the pain, but they soften it—just a little. The fury that once filled me is hollow now, replaced by something far heavier.
“I blamed you,” I whisper. “I hated you for so long.”
He nods, eyes glistening, lips pressed thin. “I know. I let you. It was safer that way.”
My chest aches with the force of it all. I close the distance between us, not out of forgiveness, not out of love, but because I can’t bear the thought of being alone with this truth. I let him pull me into his arms, let him steady me as the sobs return, wracking my body with their violence.
I cling to him, and for once, he doesn’t look like my captor, my tormentor, the shadow who stole my old life away. He looks like the only person left in the world who hasn’t betrayed me, who understands what it is to lose everything, to be remade by grief.
He holds me close, one hand gentle on my back, the other brushing through my hair. He doesn’t try to hush me, doesn’t rush me, just stands there as I cry myself empty. My tears soak his shirt, mixing with his blood, with everything we’ve lost.
“I don’t know what to do,” I whisper, my voice so small I hardly recognize it. “I don’t know who I am without him. I don’t know what’s left.”
Emil presses his lips to my temple. “You survive. That’s all any of us can do.”
I nod, breath hitching, the weight of everything settling in my bones. I let myself lean on him, just for this moment. Maybe tomorrow the pain will come back, maybe the old anger will surface again.
In this ruined house, in the arms of the man I thought was my enemy, I find something like peace.
We stand together, two survivors clinging to the only truth we have left: that love and hate, loyalty and betrayal, are never simple. That in a world built on violence, sometimes the only way forward is through forgiveness, no matter how much it hurts.
Emil holds me tighter, as if he knows the storm isn’t over yet. I let him, because right now, he’s the only thing keeping me from being swept away.
Chapter Twenty-Eight - Emil
Days pass in an uneasy quiet, the world outside the mansion moving on as if nothing has changed.
Inside, everything is different. The sharp, brittle tension between Isabella and me has dulled to something softer, something I don’t dare name. For so long, every look she gave me was full of hate—ice in her eyes, fire in her words.
Now, when she meets my gaze, there’s something else there. Hesitation, uncertainty. Sometimes, it’s something like hope.
I see it in the small ways she moves through the house. The first morning, I find her at the breakfast table, not picking at her food, not staring out the window with that hollow, empty expression, but actually eating. Just a few bites, but it’s a start. Dimitri notices too, shooting me a look over his coffee, but he doesn’t say anything.
Later, I pass her in the library, a book open on her lap, sunlight slanting over her shoulder. She’s reading, not just pretending to ignore me. Her lips move with the words, and for a second, the old Isabella is there: fierce, hungry for knowledge, alive.
I watch her from the doorway, half afraid she’ll sense me and close up again. She doesn’t. Her eyes dart to mine, and this time, she doesn’t look away as quickly as she used to.
At night, I hear laughter from down the hall. It’s a small sound, quick and nervous, but real. The staff tells me she asked for new music in her room, a change of sheets, a different blend of tea. The requests are simple, ordinary. To me, they’reeverything. They mean she’s still fighting, still living, even after everything I put her through.
She’s healing. I see it in the way her shoulders square when she walks, in the color that’s returned to her cheeks, in the way she sometimes smiles when she thinks I’m not looking. The sound of it—light, shy, almost embarrassed—cuts through the darkness I’ve lived in for so long. I don’t know what to do with the feeling it gives me, that odd, unsettling warmth that coils in my chest.
I tell myself it’s enough just to keep her close. That if she stays, if she survives, I’ve done my part. But deep down, I know the truth: I don’t just want her near. I want her completely. I want her trust, her laughter, the soft parts of her that she guards so fiercely. I want her forgiveness, even though I know I’ll never deserve it.
One night, the house is quiet, the halls heavy with the hush that comes after midnight. I’m in my office, going through the last of the day’s work, a stack of contracts, a few coded messages from allies, a half-empty bottle of vodka on the desk. The air smells of old paper, ink, and the faintest trace of her perfume.
