Chapter 49Seven Times
Seven Times
Isabella
By the time we get home, it’s well past midnight.
The streets are empty and smeared with fog, streetlights flickering like they’re thinking about dying.
Sawyer doesn’t say a word on the drive back, and neither do we.
Ada stares blankly out the window, arms crossed, her knee bouncing.
My thoughts are too loud to speak over. Everything Dominik said is still sinking in, shifting inside me like broken glass in water, almost clear, almost settled, but still dangerous if you move too fast.
We have answers now. Some, at least. Pieces of great worth.
But the biggest one still roars inside the silence, louder than ever.
Where is he?
That question has teeth. It follows me as I walk to our front door, I key it open, and I step inside the house like it might swallow me whole. I feel stretched thin, held together by sheer will and caffeine and whatever dark, jagged thing is keeping me upright.
I make my way up the stairs, Ada following me without a sound.
First thing I do is strip out of my leggings, peeling them off like armor that’s outlived its use.
I toss them somewhere near the laundry basket.
Miss. Doesn’t matter. I grab the first shirt I find, oversized and soft, swallowing me whole.
His, maybe. Or one I bought that felt like him.
The fabric smells clean but old, faint detergent and something that reminds me of the past. That aching ghost of before .
In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face and brush my teeth, staring into the mirror like it might offer answers. The girl staring back at me looks wired, eyes too wide, pupils still blown out from adrenaline. She’s trying to stay human. Trying to stay sane. But her hands are still shaking.
I crawl into bed and pull the blankets over me like a shield. The warmth is instant. Too much. I push one leg out. My body is exhausted, but my mind won’t stop sprinting.
Ada’s presence is like a weight, gentle but definite, as she scoots closer. I don’t need to look at her to know what she’s doing. The bed creaks softly as she adjusts herself, settling in next to me with an intimacy that doesn’t need words.
‘‘So,’’ I begin, my voice breaking the silence, ‘‘that was… a lot, wasn’t it?’’ I don’t know what else to say.
The meeting felt like we’d barely scratched the surface, but the words that had been spilled—Dominik’s revelations about the Gambino family, Aslanov, and the traitors—it was more than I expected.
‘‘It was. But we finally got some clarity, though.’’
I lie still for a moment, the weight of the conversation pressing down on me.
Ada’s words are hanging in the air, but I don’t respond right away.
I’m not sure how to. The silence stretches between us, filled with everything that happened today, everything we learned, and everything we still don’t know.
Finally, Ada breaks it. Her voice is softer than usual, thoughtful.
‘‘Are you ready to face him, if he’s still out there?’’ she asks, her words heavy with meaning.
She pauses, almost as if considering how to phrase the rest. ‘‘Someone who’s undergone something so horrible, beyond our imagination, usually isn’t the same. ’’
She’s right; what he’s been through, what he’s endured, is beyond anything I can truly comprehend. But somehow, deep down, I know I’m ready. I would rather face him, no matter the state he’s in, than never see him again at all.
I have ached and yearned for him, I need him.
‘‘I’m ready,’’ I say quietly, my voice steady despite the racing thoughts in my mind. ‘‘I don’t care what condition he’s in… as long as he’s not pale and dead.’’
Ada nods, her gaze softening as she watches me. ‘‘You really love him, don’t you?’’
I don’t answer right away. Instead, I just smile, a sad, small curve of my lips. I look down at my hands, the familiar ache in my chest growing stronger, more insistent.
‘‘Yes,’’ I whisper, barely audible, like the word itself might break me open.
Ada squeezes my hand, her touch warm and grounding in the silence that stretches between us. She doesn’t say anything at first, just sits there, close and steady. Then, after a moment, she offers me a small smile, soft but genuine, the kind of smile that says everything without needing words.
‘‘Whatever we’ll face,’’ she says quietly, her voice steady despite everything, ‘‘know that I’ll face it with you.’’
I nod, but I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more she’s not saying. Her gaze drifts off, eyes distant, like she’s lost in a thought I can’t quite reach.
‘‘What’s up?’’ I ask gently, trying to pull her back to the present.
Ada looks away, biting her lip slightly as if she’s holding something back, her gaze fixed on the wall, her thoughts far from here. She hesitates, and for a moment, I think she might not say anything at all. Then, with a quiet sigh, she finally speaks.
‘‘There is something about Dominik. He’s not like anyone I’ve ever met before. There’s something about him that… I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.’’
I frown, trying to follow her logic, but there’s something off in the way she’s speaking. She’s not being entirely honest with me, I can tell. “What are you trying to say?”
Ada hesitates for a moment, then her lips curl into a soft, almost shy smile, but it’s fleeting, and before I can catch it, she shifts uncomfortably. “I guess... I guess I find him intriguing. There’s something about him that’s... attractive. It’s hard to describe.’’
I blink at her in surprise, my mind taking a moment to process her words. Ada, my tough, no-nonsense friend, the one who usually steers clear of any unnecessary emotional baggage, is telling me that she’s attracted to Dominik?
I can’t help but laugh lightly, though it’s more in disbelief than amusement. ‘‘Wait, you find him attractive?’’ I tease gently.
Ada rolls her eyes, but there’s a faint blush creeping up her neck, which she tries to hide by pulling the blanket higher around her shoulders.
‘‘I know, I know,’’ she mutters, clearly embarrassed.
‘‘I shouldn’t, he is a criminal. I don’t know why.
But there’s something about him… he’s so intense, and I just can’t stop noticing him.
I’m not saying I like him, but—’’ she shakes her head, clearly frustrated with herself.
I’m still processing the admission. “Well, that’s a twist,” I say, trying to hold back a grin. “You’ve been scolding me about my attraction to a criminal since I can remember.”
Ada glares at me, but there’s no heat in it, just a mix of irritation and embarrassment. “It’s not like that. Aslanov is not my type, he scares me. I just… I don’t know how to explain it, okay? I think he’s fascinating in a way that doesn’t make sense.’’
I can’t help but smile softly, nudging her. “Ada, it’s okay. I’m just surprised. I thought you’d be more immune to his charm.” I pause, teasing her lightly. “Guess I was wrong.”
Ada huffs, turning her back to me slightly. “Stop it. I can’t help it. He’s just—ugh, never mind.”
Before I can say anything else, the tension between us breaks. I burst out laughing, unable to hold it in anymore. It feels good, this moment of levity, of not taking everything so seriously for just a second.
Ada lets out a reluctant chuckle too, rolling her eyes as she turns back to face me. “If you ever tell a soul, I’ll bury you myself,” she says with mock seriousness, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
I hold my hands up in surrender, still laughing. ‘‘I swear, your secret’s safe with me.’’
My eyes glint mischievously as I add, ‘‘Last time I checked, he was single though,’’ and wink at her.
She freezes for a moment, her eyes widening in surprise, and then I hear Ada’s voice rise in mock horror. “Isabella!”
We both burst into laughter, but after a few moments, the weight of everything from the day settles back in, and we both grow quiet. Ada shifts slightly, stretching as she lets out a small yawn. ‘‘Alright, enough. I’m done. I’m going to bed,’’ she says, pushing herself off the bed and standing up.
‘‘Don’t dream too much about him!’’ I call after her, teasing.
Ada shoots me a look over her shoulder, a smirk tugging at her lips. Without a word, she grabs a shoe from the ground and throws it in my direction. It lands on the bed next to me with a soft thud.
I laugh, but she’s already halfway to the door, pushing it open with a huff. ‘‘Goodnight, Isabella. And seriously, keep your mouth shut.’’
I chuckle, watching her close the door behind her with a soft click.
I roll over in bed and reach for my phone from the nightstand.
We’re meeting Dominik again at 8 AM. That gives me barely five hours of sleep. I set the alarm for 7 AM, already mentally preparing to feel like shit tomorrow.
That’s when I see it.
Notifications light up my screen.
Missed messages.
One from Mom. Of course. Another from Dr. Monroe. I’ll deal with them later.
Then—
A third notification.
Unknown Number.
Seven missed calls.
I stare at the screen, my heart thumping as the realization sinks in. Seven missed calls. The last one was about half an hour ago. Whoever it is, they’re persistent. I quickly tap the number and copy it from the screen, then send a message to Dominik without giving it a second thought.
This number has called me seven times. The last call was about half an hour ago. I don’t know who it is, but I thought you should know.
I sit back, feeling the weight of the moment settle over me as I wait for his reply. My fingers are shaking slightly, my mind racing with thoughts of who could be calling me at this hour. My stomach twists, but I force myself to stay calm.
The response is almost immediate.
I’ll track the call if I can. Don’t answer it when it rings.
I keep my phone close, glancing at the screen every few seconds, waiting for another message from Dominik.
The ten minutes stretch into what feels like hours.
Then, finally, my phone buzzes.
I almost jump out of my skin as I grab it.
It’s an old phone. Barely any signal, but I’ve been able to track it. It’s coming from a remote location. It’s about 10 miles away from the bunker we discovered not even 24 hours ago.
I blink, a cold heat rash running down my spine. My heart starts to race.
It could be him.
The words echo in my head, and the cold heat of fear spreads across my skin. My pulse accelerates, and my thoughts scatter.
Aslanov.
The adrenaline hits like a rush of ice water, jolting my entire system.
Every nerve is on fire, my senses overloaded, and my mind, my mind is scattered, trying to hold everything together.
The weight of everything that’s happened, all the grief, the fear, the unanswered questions, suddenly crashes down on me.
I feel it all; the loss, the uncertainty, the ache of missing him, of not knowing where he is, of not knowing if he’s still alive over the past months.
I’m going there now. Send me the address.
I hit send, my breath shallow as I wait for his reply. A moment passes, then another. My finger hovers over the screen, the urgency growing with each second.
No, you’re not. I have no idea who or what we might find there. It could be a trap, it could be worse. I can’t trust any of the men around me right now, so I’m going, alone.
I type quickly, my anger flaring.
I’m coming too. And if you don’t send me that address, I’ll find my own way. Don’t think for a second I’m going to sit here and wait while he could be out there.
I can feel my pulse throbbing in my throat as I hit send.
Dress warm. Be ready in 20 minutes. I’m coming to get you, and only you. No one else is joining.