I don’t consciously acknowledge Isabella pressing the button on the elevator control panel until the doors close and we begin our ascent in silence.
Kyle is still in the boardroom when we walk in. The table is still littered with brandy glasses stained amber at the bottom,and half-filled water tumblers. The ice in the jug has melted, condensation clinging to the glass.
I pull out the seat next to Kyle for Isabella and sit on the other side of her. Bash half-fills a glass with brandy and remains standing.
“I know where Remy is.” Isabella opens the conversation.
She knits her fingers in her lap, subconsciously twisting the engagement ring around her finger. Her brown eyes are clear, but she has barely managed to conceal the dark pouches underneath them.
Bash knocks back his brandy and turns watery eyes her way.
Kyle stops typing and looks up from his tablet, the only sign that he heard what she said.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“I want my fiancé out of my life.” She delivers the demand coolly, enunciating each word for the avoidance of ambiguity.
Not quite the demand I was expecting, but it all starts clicking into place. George stalking Remy. Their casino visits. Visible but discreet, making her presence known without aiming at the target too soon.
“You want us to kill him?” Bash asks, and Kyle shoots him a warning look to reign it in.
“If you wish.” Her smile is think-lipped. “Provided his murder can’t be traced back to me, of course. I want to be rid of him. I don’t want to spend the next ten years in jail for the privilege.”
“But you’re happy for us to take the rap.” I watch her closely.
She is still spinning the diamond ring, but otherwise, she might be here to sell us a branding upgrade rather than to deliver a ransom request.
“I would prefer it if the NYPD didn’t find his killer. You’re worth more to me free than you are from inside a prison cell. Unless you have a better suggestion.”
Kyle turns his tablet face-down on the table and faces her. “Perhaps you’d care to explain your reasons for wanting him out of your life. It might make our decision a little easier.”
She laughs now, a throaty sound at odds with her well-groomed appearance, and I get my first glimpse of the real Isabella. I wonder when her parents last saw her for the young woman trying to find her own niche in a city top—heavy with billionaire businessmen and notorious gangsters. Or indeed, if they ever did.
Maybe Remy has softened me around the edges because I almost feel a little sorry for Isabella. Almost. My woman is still missing, so I’ll reserve judgement until she is safe and well and back in my arms.
“Like you have any other option.” Isabella reaches for the jug of water. “May I?”
I nod and she fills a glass, sips it slowly, and sets it down in front of her.
“My father always resented his small-time mafia legacy. Puny, he called it. I recall watching him as a child and figuring out that he talked loudly but never followed it through with action. He never saw himself as the problem, but I saw it. I saw it, and I vowed that I would never be like him. That I would take mylegacy and turn it into something untouchable. Something that was unmistakably mine.
“He wanted a son. My mom disappointed him when she produced a daughter. I disappointed him when I questioned his authority. The harder I pushed against his orders, the more determined he became to force me into a marriage that would benefit him and his legacy.Hislegacy.” She arches her immaculate eyebrows. “Not mine. Never mine, until he chose George Quinn as an advantageous alliance. He looked at me differently then. Admitted to himself that perhaps I was stronger-willed, smarter, sharper than the fiancé he chose for me.”
“That was when he gave you some freedom to do things your way.” I haven’t moved, I realize.
Isabella Leone has a way of commanding attention when she speaks, and I wonder how different her life might’ve turned out if only her father hadn’t been so chained to history and outdated views.
She smiles. “He didn’t want to, but I gave him no choice.”
I nod. “Where does Remy fit into all this?”
“I hate to admit it, but George handed her to me on a plate. I saw him talking to her in the Rinse, did some digging, had her followed, and discovered that his ex-girlfriend was the doorway I’d been looking for. Thanks to you and your brother.”
I glance at Bash. He has been simmering since he marched in here earlier like a cowboy entering a wild west saloon. Now, it visibly rises to the surface. His eyes darken. His fists clench. Then he hurls his empty glass across the room; it hits the wall with a dull thud and leaves behind a crater-shaped hole.
Isabella doesn’t react when he leans over and says, “You used her to get to us. Why didn’t you just shoot him for fuck’s sake and be done with it?”
“I thought I’d made that clear.” She doesn’t drop eye contact. “George Quinn isn’t worth going to prison for. And besides, an alliance with the Murrays would be far more beneficial.”
