“Where?” I asked. Yuri fastened his necktie before he answered.
“Here in Manhattan. I believe that's the location where he plans to hand Isabella over to Caruso.”
“Marco, that bastard!”
“Take it easy, Mikhail. You haven't seen him, and your rage is all over the place.”
I shut my eyes at Viktor's words and took a large inhale of air, telling myself to be calm, before sitting back in the chair. My chest tightened, and my stomach still felt sour.
“I want to kill him,” I said and laughed a little. “My goodness, I want to bust a cap in his fucking head. I want him to know what it feels like to have no other option but to die for all the chaos he's brought upon Isabella.”
“I know, and you will. But remember, you don't want to act rashly. It will only ruin you. We'll have to think straight. Strategy is the best way to go about this, Mikhail.”
I knew that this was the perfect time to strike. If I had my way, I'd dash out to Manhattan, and my first sighting of Marco would be his last. But thank heavens that Viktor was here with me, or else something terrible would've occurred. I could only imagine the possibilities of how I'd make Marco suffer for all the pain he had caused Isabella. So I breathed out, exercising the patience that was never a part of me, reclining on the chair with my hands folded tightly in defeat to Viktor's calm.
“Of course,” I said. “Strategy.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Isabella’s POV
The renovation was still occurring in the mansion when I woke up. Mikhail wasn't in bed, and I wondered where he had gone. The home decorators worked all night, moving in pieces of some of the best furniture I've seen. The furry velvet couch that was brought to the bedroom has a scent similar to the inside of a new game box. The new chandelier hung in a display of shimmering light. Morning swallows chirped in unison, some flying around the fir trees and others perched on the slim branch. Their song had a sad tone, almost as though they mourned for those who died during the attack. And speaking of the attack, I couldn't find a trace of blood or a dead body.
Everything looked different. Not just new, but different. The television screen displayed headlines of the news on MSNBC, and I wondered about the speed at which all the workers worked.
I sat on the couch in the living room and breathed out. My back lay flat against the sofa while my head looked up at the ceiling.
“This is fucked.” I whispered in soliloquy, with my hand over my head, as I recalled how horrified I was the previous night. That was the first time I’d shot a gunatsomeone.
“I'm a murderer.” The word lingered in my head for a while, and I closed my eyes until it settled. The air smelled of fresh paint and a tiny bit of dust. Yet, in the darkness, I saw Dad's image as clear as day. His voice came in sharp and clear, almost as though it wasn't just a memory, but reality. All the words he had said, all the promises to protect me and keep me safe.
He couldn't stand to tell me the truth. He was a pathological liar and needed more than therapy; he needed rehab.
Shameless, he left me to deal with the Lobanovs. He knew quite well that all the debts and corruption he was mixed up in would lead to me being someone else's property. Yet he ran away from truth and responsibility. As bad as it seemed, Dad never cared, and I was sick enough to believe that he had my best interest at heart. This man was beyond heartless. He was a corrupt, ill-mannered, stupid old crook who was beyond saving, and it took me a long time to come to terms with this reality.
“Dad is beyond saving.” My voice looped in my head. I was compelled to scream. “Marco is beyond saving.”
Oh, if I'd known that being under the care of my father would lead me to this agony, I would've run away to a different country where I'd live like a stranger. It was better not to livewith Dad than to live with him. I'd be his pawn, and that would mean I would take the largest risk. Dad never fought for me before. For if he found it hard to fight for me when Mikhail and his men took me out of the house and brought me into his mansion, it would be ten times harder for him to fight for me now that he's made everything worse by teaming up with Caruso.
My breath felt heavy and warm. My closed eyes reflected on the letter that brought me to this point, bringing tears to my eyes.
I sniveled and wiped them off before anyone could see, and then I breathed in and out, assuring myself that everything would be fine.
And just as if God understood my pain, I looked to the entrance door and saw Emilia and Liza walk in with their high heels clicking.
“Oh, Isabella,” Emilia said and rushed to hug me. Liza followed behind her. “Don't cry. We're here now. Viktor told me what happened, so I contacted Liza, and we decided to come and see you.”
“I didn't expect to see you with tears in your eyes. I hoped to see you looking pretty as always.” Liza said, and I felt somewhat sad and ashamed that I couldn't hide my tears. If I’d known they'd come, I would've done better at acting as though everything was fine. Vulnerability was never my best trait, yet I gave into it. And what on earth did she mean by hoping to see me looking pretty as always? Did I look ugly when I cried?
“It was nice of you guys to show up. What can I get you two to drink?”
“Oh, I'm full. I won't be needing anything,” Emilia said in retort. Liza waved her hand past her face and said, “Me neither.” So, I leaned back on the sofa.
“It's nice what they've done with this place.”
“The home decor or the hooligans that attacked?” My eyes narrowed at Liza's response to Emilia before looking back at the TV.
“You know I'm talking about the home decor, Liza.”
