Page 37 of Accidental Alliance

Perhaps he already understood that the woman on the other side of the door would never choose impulse where her child was concerned but would eventually know when to give in.

There is something unsettling in that scrutiny, in being seen so clearly by someone who belongs to the world I worked so hard to escape.

It makes me feel exposed in ways my plain clothes and false name never prepared me for, stripped of camouflage and returned, however briefly, to the version of myself who knew exactly what men like him looked for and exactly how to hide from it.

Only now, I no longer have the luxury of thinking only of myself.

I step aside at last, inviting them all in without another word. Davide moves only then, crossing the threshold with the quiet confidence of a man long accustomed to entering places where he knows he is not entirely welcome.

He stands just inside the entryway, taking in the room with one measured glance.

The family photos on the side table and Matteo’s shoes kicked crookedly against the baseboard are what his eyes linger on first.

He moves deeper into my home, past the drawings framed on the wall leading into the living room, all bright crayon stick figures and trees. Every detail of the life I built is now being seen through someone else’s eyes.

I hate how I can’t tell what he makes of it.

I fold my arms across my chest and lead him into the living room. We both settle on the couches facing opposite each other. His men crowd just inside the archway, keeping a bit of distance from us to give us space.

When Davide looks at me again, it’s the first time since I opened the door that he looks less like a syndicate boss. Sitting here in my living room, he looks more like a man carrying a heavy weight that he can no longer bear on his own, bowing under it visibly.

“Another family is moving in on my territory,” he begins, lacing his fingers together over his knee. “They have begun seizing assets piece by piece. Quietly at first, with disrupting warehouse supply chains and shipping routes. Recently, they’ve moved to the financial fronts and have gotten a few of my accounts frozen. Entire operations I've had for decades are beginning to collapse overnight. They are ruthless and have no clear plans of stopping anytime soon.”

His voice remains even, but I can hear the strain under it.

“I need a brilliant strategist like your father was to help me make moves against them. I know he taught you well, Isabella.”

I feel the pull of it instantly, that old instinct stirring within me as my Russo blood hums in my veins.

It is stitched into me more deeply than the false name on my paperwork and the person I’ve been pretending to be for almost a decade.

Pattern analysis.

Weak points.

Pressure lines inside enemy lines.

That delicious, dangerous satisfaction of seeing three moves ahead while the other side still thinks they are safe on the first.

My father trained me in that language before I was old enough to understand how many daughters were never taught it. He would sit me beside him after meetings and ask what I saw.

Which one lied with his body instead of his mouth, what alliances were fracturing under the strain of politics and which insults had been filed away for future bloodshed.

He taught me to see the game beneath the board, to hear what men meant when they thought they were clever or too afraid to say something outright.

For one dangerous second, I imagine stepping back into that role. I imagine the hum of my mind when it locks into that kind of work, the thrill of making invisible pieces align, the private rush of setting a trap so elegant, the enemy thinks it is his own idea right until the floor drops out beneath him.

It would be easy, I realize with a coldness that unsettles me. Too easy. Eight years away and that part of me is still there, still breathing just below the surface, patient as a predator in deep water. It does not feel dead. It feels hungry.

Then I picture Matteo’s face. I see him exactly as he was five minutes ago with grass-stained knees, hair in his eyes, mouth open in laughter because a little boy from two houses down missed an easy goal and collapsed into theatrical despair.

I see the gap where one of his baby teeth finally came loose last week, the roundness still lingering in his cheeks from when he was a toddler, the way he tucks his stuffed shark under one arm every single night and pretends he has outgrown it if anyone asks.

The entire fantasy of my life as a Russo dies instantly.

My answer comes immediately, unwavering. “I will not let that world touch my child. Not now, not ever. Find another way, Davide. I can’t.”

Disappointment flickers behind his eyes. “Is there anything I can offer you that will convince you to reconsider?”