Page 31 of The Cost of Silence

But looking at her now, at what they’ve already done, I know something else with a bone-deep certainty.

If they come for her again, clean won’t be an option.

I start the engine. “We’ll get your things back,” I lie, because it’s what she needs to hear.

Her mouth lifts in a humorless half-smile. “You can’t promise that.”

“No,” I agree. “But I can promise this.”

She turns her head, waiting.

“They won’t touch you again,” I say quietly. “Not while you’re under my roof.”

And I don’t say it out loud, but the rest of the vow settles in my chest like a brand.

Not while you’re mine to protect.

Then I do what my father would want, I text my brothers, because us three against the world is the only thing I can trust right now.

10.Isabella

By the timewe get back to the penthouse, I’m running on fumes.

My ribs ache with every breath, a dull, wrapping pain that creeps up my back and into my shoulders. The kind of ache that makes your body feel a size too small for everything you’re trying to hold together. My head’s buzzing, not just from painkillers and smoke, but from the image of my building blackened and crumbling, firefighters moving like ghosts through the ruin of what used to be home.

Nico’s building is too clean for all that grief.

The elevator opens into a wide hallway with double doors that lead straight into his living room, all glass and steel and expensive understatement. The city stretches out beyond the windows, busy and bright, like nothing happened. Like no one tried to break me, or burn my life down, yet I’m glad I’m here. I know I need to call my mom and my friends and my boss but that can wait an hour. I need to breathe.

“Sit,” Nico says quietly, nodding toward the couch.

I obey before I think about it, lowering myself gingerly onto the soft, dark fabric. My ribs protest, but the cushions give just enough. The penthouse smells like coffee, wood polish, and thefaint trace of his cologne, something warm and clean, like cedar and winter air.

He moves through the kitchen with contained energy, setting his keys down, shrugging out of his coat. Everything about him is controlled, trimmed down, like he’s keeping himself on a short leash.

I wrap my arms around myself, fingers brushing the torn edge of my sweater. “You don’t have to babysit me, you know.”

He glances over his shoulder. “I’m not babysitting you.”

“No?” I lift a brow. “What would you call it?”

“Containment.” He grabs his phone, thumbs already moving. “I’m calling my brothers. We’re not doing this alone.”

A strange twinge hits my chest. Not jealousy. Something like… awareness. There’s more to him than the suit and the scowl and the article headline I tried to boil his life down to. Is that regret I feel niggling in my gut? Did I make a mistake writing what I did? I thought he was a certain type of man, and now I wonder if I missed the mark. Or maybe like a novice, only got half the story.

He sends a message, then another. His jaw ticks once, twice, a rhythm I’m starting to recognize as his version of pacing. When he looks back at me, his gaze softens by a millimeter.

“Hungry?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Not really.”

He gives me a look that says wrong answer. “That wasn’t the question I asked.”

“It was literally the question you asked.”

“I asked if you’re hungry. Not if you feel like eating.” He taps a number on his phone. “You’re eating.”

“I’m not a dog,” I mutter.