The next morning felt heavier than the night before. I could still feel Mikhail's touch somewhere under my skin, burning. I tried to scrub it off in the shower, but it lingered. Just like thoughts of him lingered in my mind.
By the time I met Emilia and Liza at the café, my smile widened. The place smelled of roasted coffee beans and sugar, but all I tasted was metal.
Emilia waved at me the second I walked in. "You look tired," she said, frowning as I sat down.
"I didn't sleep much," I lied, stirring the foam of my cappuccino though it didn't need stirring.
Liza studied me over the rim of her glass. The kind of stare that cut straight through the skin. "Did something happen?"
I shook my head. "No, nothing."
Emilia leaned forward, her eyes soft but curious. "It's about him, isn't it? Mikhail?"
My jaw tightened. "It's not always about him."
"It usually is," Liza muttered.
Emilia ignored her. "Isabella, maybe you should try to trust him. I know what people say about him, but–"
I gave a sharp and humorless laugh. "Trust him? He probably lies for a living, Emilia. That man wouldn't know the truth if it bled out in front of him."
Emilia flinched at my tone but didn't back down. "You don't know that. You've only seen the worst of him."
I gripped my cup tighter. "That's the part that matters."
She opened her mouth again, and before she could say another word, I whispered, almost to myself, "He is lying."
The words hung between us, low and bitter. Liza set her cup down with a small clink. "You sound like someone who's already been burned."
I looked up at her, ready to snap, but she kept talking. "Men like him," she said quietly, "they don't fall in love. They consume, and when they're done, you'll have nothing left but ashes."
I swallowed hard, pretending her words didn't land.
"Then maybe I'll be the first to burn him," I said softly.
Liza gave a short, humorless laugh. "Good luck, sweetheart. Just make sure he doesn't enjoy watching you do it."
I glanced at Emilia staring down at her coffee, torn between hope and fear. "He has no reason to lie to you. If he said he’s not responsible for your brother’s death, then he isn’t.”
I wanted to believe her. God, I did. But the image of Giovanni's blood wouldn't fade.
"I can't believe," I whispered. "Not yet."
None of us spoke after that, and the silence grew heavy, pressing against the walls until even the soft café music felt too loud.
But outside, the cold wind hit my face, and I took a deep breath, pretending it helped and that I felt fine. But inside, I already knew I wasn’t just playing with fire. I was standing in it.
The city felt louder than usual. Horns blared, people shouted, and the hum of life refused to stop even when mine felt stuck somewhere between love and hate.
I drove with no direction, just trying to outrun the noise in my head. Mikhail's voice kept coming back, calm and cold, the way he said it that night. "I didn't kill your brother."
I gripped the wheel tighter, and my heart twisted because part of me almost believed him.
No answers came, and I thought about my father, Marco Moretti. The man who taught me how to lie before I learned how to love. He used to say, 'In this world, trust no one. Especially not the ones who look you in the eye when they say they love you.'
He was a coward, but what if, just this once, he's right? Mikhail looks me in the eye, too. He touches me like I'm both his sin and salvation. He says words that sound too much like thetruth. I know men like him are men who know how to make lies feel like comfort.
My fingers drum against the wheel. I whisper, "I won't fall for him, no, I can't."
