She swallowed visibly. “Uncle Marcus. He came in with his laptop, started watching. I tried to stay hidden, but there was dust under the sofa. I sneezed.”
The way she’d hesitated before she said his name—Marcus—made something primitive rise in me. A cold, calculating rage. I forced it down, keeping my expression neutral.
“He made me sit beside him,” she continued, her eyes focused somewhere beyond me. “Made me watch the feed with him. I saw you fighting. Saw what they were doing to you and the others.”
Her words painted a picture I hadn’t anticipated. Marcus had been involved with the fighting rings. He’d been watching us. Enjoyed our suffering.
“You were brave,” I said quietly. “Braver than most adults would have been.”
A shadow crossed her face. “Not brave enough,” she whispered, almost to herself.
I frowned, sensing there was more to the story. “What do you mean?”
Isabella’s expression closed off slightly, her gaze dropping to the water. “Nothing. It was a long time ago.”
The change in her demeanor was subtle but unmistakable. Whatever she wasn’t saying, it was significant. I should push. “I never knew,” I said instead, shifting the focus back to my experience. “None of us knew the fights were being streamed. We thought…we thought it was just for the people in the room. The sick bastards who came to watch in person.”
A shudder ran through me at the memory. The cage. The cheering. The smell of blood and fear. The way the younger kids looked at me, expecting protection I couldn’t provide.
“Instead of watching the stream, I focused on the URL. I’d just learned about it the week before, and after he left, I found a scrap of paper—wrote down the URL that was on the screen.” Her voice strengthened slightly. “And handed it to a police officer.”
“That took incredible courage,” I said softly. Especially for a young girl from a Mafia family, who probably learned from early on that the police were not the way to go.
She shook her head. “I was terrified. Not just of what I’d seen but of Uncle Marcus.”
The pieces began falling into place, a terrible picture forming. The way she’d reacted to Marcus. Her panic at seeing him again.
“Isabella,” I said carefully, “what did Uncle Marcus do when he made you sit next to him?”
She didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes met mine, searching, assessing. Whatever she saw there seemed to satisfy her.
“He touched me,” she finally said, the words barely audible. “That day and other times. He never… It never went as far as he wanted. Someone always interrupted, or I found a way to escape.”
My vision narrowed, a red haze threatening to overtake my peripheral sight. I had to consciously regulate my breathing, keep my hands relaxed, and calm my expression.
“He never…?” I couldn’t bring myself to finish the question.
“No. He tried a few more times over the years, but Miraand I became experts at avoiding him.” She met my eyes again. “He never got what he wanted.”
Relief washed through me, followed immediately by renewed fury. That he had tried at all, that he had continued to have access to her after that first attempt—it was monstrous.
“I understand if this changes how you see me,” she said, her voice small again.
The statement jerked me from my violent thoughts. “Changes how I see you?”
She shrugged, water rippling around her shoulders. “Damaged goods and all that.”
“Shorty.” I moved closer, taking both her hands in mine. “Look at me.”
She raised her eyes reluctantly.
“What happened to you doesn’t define you. It reveals even more how strong you are.” I squeezed her hands gently. “And it doesn’t change how I see you, except perhaps to make me admire you more.”
“You don’t have to say that.”
“I don’t say things I don’t mean.” I held her gaze steadily. “You are incredible. You survived. You protected yourself and Mira. And you still found the courage to help others—to help me—despite your own fear.”
A single tear escaped, tracking down her cheek. “I still struggle with it sometimes. Like I should’ve done something different or maybe fought harder.”
