The car swerves hard around a corner, engine roaring as he pushes it far past any legal speed limit. Behind us, the gunfire fades.
Leone grabs his phone with one hand and hits a button.
“Nico,” he says.
The call connects immediately.
“I’m here,” Nico’s voice answers, sharp and focused.
“We had company,” Leone says. “Took a few shots. I can’t reach her apartment. Too exposed.”
A pause.
“Understood,” Nico says. “Bring her to the penthouse.”
My heart lurches. “What about Noah?” I shout, leaning toward the phone. “He’s at home!”
Silence crackles through the speaker for half a second.
Then Nico’s voice comes back, low and steady.
“I’ll get him.”
“No,” I say instantly. “I’m going?—”
“Izzy.”
That’s all he says. Just my name.
But there’s something in the way he says it that stops the words in my throat.
“I will get him,” he repeats. “You need to trust me.”
Trust him.
With our son.
My fingers tighten around the edge of the seat.
Every instinct in my body screams to go to Noah myself. To run through the streets if I have to, to get to him before anything else can.
But Nico is already moving.
I can hear it in the background of the call—doors opening, voices barking orders, the quiet chaos of men who know exactly what they’re doing.
He’s going.
For Noah.
Forourson.
My throat feels tight.
“Please,” Nico says quietly.
And just like that, I realize something.
The man who refuses to let anyone close—the man who keeps pushing me away—is asking me for trust.
