7. CHAPTER 6 – ISABELLA
CHAPTER 6 – ISABELLA
T he wheels of the jet scrape against the tarmac, a deafening roar filling my ears, my mind, my heart. I grip the armrest, my knuckles white, as a slight jolt travels through the cabin and through whatever nerves I thought I could keep steady.
We've arrived in Naples.
The city I'd visited as a carefree child now feels like a grand stage with a twisted performance awaiting me.
My father's touch on my shoulder pulls me back, grounding me. For a brief, fleeting moment, I'm his little ballerina again, that energetic girl on tiptoes, the one that could make him laugh and the one that could make the world around her swirl. I long to push back, to remind him of the strong woman I've become, but his grip and those eyes... they pull me back into a dance I never wished to perform.
But when he stands up without another word, I’m reminded that he’s on a mission here and I guess I am, too.
"Is he here?" His tone is sharp, each word a staccato. And I know by his tone he’s asking about Antonio. The name reverberates through me, a mix of old melodies and haunting tunes. “Make sure he gets the lilac delivered to his room.”
The lilac—Antonio’s mom’s favorite flower. She’s the one who taught me which ones were safe for cats and which ones weren’t. How Lilies could really hurt Pavarotti: the stem, leaves, flowers, pollen, and even the water in a vase. Georgio knew it when he brought me those flowers, once. Probably hating Pavarotti because he made him sneeze.
Antonio’s mother is the one who made sure that never happened again.
My father is taunting Antonio, trying to destabilize him before the auction. Or maybe he’s trying to get him to back off.
Maybe I should ask the pilot to turn around and fly me back to Chicago. But to what? And if I do, what would happen to Naomi? To our families?
Taking a deep breath, I channel the fiercest version of myself. "Come on, Bella. You danced on broken toes. You've pirouetted past doubts. You danced with death. This? It's another stage. Own it."
“Let’s go,” Georgio tells me, guiding me from the plush seats of the private jet into the awaiting limo where more security men are waiting. Their stern faces are hidden behind dark sunglasses, their suits as stiff and unwelcoming as their attitudes.
It’s morning here and the sun is peeking through clouds.
The limo speeds up, and through the tinted windows, I catch fleeting glimpses of Naples—old men chatting on park benches, children chasing pigeons in piazzas, bakeries that look amazing. But all these vibrant snippets are overshadowed by the looming presence of the men in the car and my father's overbearing precautions.
The hotel looms large and intimidating as we pull up, my stomach churning with a mix of anticipation and dread.
“I have meetings to attend,” my father says. “Tell Georgio if you need anything. And get some rest. Tonight is going to be a long night.” He turns to Georgio. “I have Paola coming in to get her ready. She’s the only one allowed inside her room...”
“Paola?” I ask with a frown.
“Someone I trust. Someone on the inside.”
He glances at me. “And she’s not allowed outside until this evening. Not without me.” As if he senses the annoyance prickling down my spine, he adds. “It’s for your safety.”
And then he’s gone.
Bodyguards hustle me through a private entrance, the opulence of the hotel suite doing little to quell my growing unease.
“Have you ever been in this place?” I ask Georgio who takes one look at me before glancing away without answering like I’m a mouse that’s bothering him, but he can’t get rid of me.
On the last floor, the elevator opens up to what looks like a Michaelangelo dream. Stepping onto the plush carpet, I take a moment, letting the reality of my surroundings sink in. The golden chandeliers, intricate mosaics on the wall, the scent of fresh roses strategically placed in vases—it's a world of luxury.
But an icy chill runs down my spine, because this isn’t a vacation.
Georgio holds me back. “Wait here.” He glances at a new guy on the team. Young. Nicer. He hasn’t barked at me, yet. “Check the area one more time. We can’t be too cautious.”
The man—Luka, I think, strides inside and within five minutes he’s back giving us the all-clear.
Georgio indicates the door leading to what looks like a living room followed by a bedroom and an en-suite bathroom. “We’ll stay right by the living room door. Do you want something to eat?” He asks. Very matter-of-fact.
“I just want to take a shower and then a cappuccino and a cornetti with butter and jam, please.”
“Sure.”
And he leaves me alone with my thoughts and with the dread pooling in my stomach. I inhale deeply. It’s one moment in time. That’s what I used to tell myself during treatments. One moment in time. Five minutes. An hour. A day. I can do this for five minutes, an hour and a day. My next deep breath isn’t as shaky.
Once I’m out of the shower, I put on sweatpants and a large shirt. The dress my father wants me to wear tonight is lying on the bed and the tightness in my shoulder returns a thousand-fold.
Crap.
“Your breakfast is here,” Georgio tells me as he sets them on the table in the living area of the suite. He didn’t knock, but knew I was done. I wouldn’t put in past my dad to have cameras in there. Or maybe he’s listening at the door.
I retrieve my phone from my bag, brushing the letter I took with me, hiding it in the fabric, and text Naomi.
I’m in Naples.
Shit. I can’t believe this is happening . She responds. You're stronger than you think. Don't forget that.
Eager for some fresh air and a momentary escape from the heavy atmosphere of the suite, I cautiously approach the balcony doors. Sliding them open, I step onto the ornate balcony overlooking the gardens and courtyard of the hotel, my cappuccino in hand. It’s about eleven in the morning and the sun is shining.
From here, I have a clear view of the main entrance of the hotel. Limos and luxury cars pull up, and men in sharp suits step out like they're auditioning for The Godfather: Italian Edition. Each step, each motion, underlines the grim reality of what's happening tonight—my very own fairy tale nightmare auction.
And then, I spot him.
Antonio.
He emerges from a matte black Lamborghini, and my lungs forget how oxygen works. Gone is the boy who used to play piano while I danced. Gone is my-stepbrother who made Mrs. Romano laugh so hard she'd snort her espresso.
This Antonio moves like someone who knows exactly how much damage he can do. The scar makes sure I never forget that lesson.
And then, as if my guilt is screaming his name, he looks up.
Our eyes meet, and time does that annoying thing where it forgets how to move forward. Like that moment in the hospital when they gave me my cells back, reminding me it was going to get even tougher before it gets better.
I remember the last time he watched me dance. Before the scar. Before the screams. Before I learned that silence could be the sharpest weapon of all. The piano in the ballroom still sits exactly where he left it, collecting dust like the rest of my could-have-beens.
My throat tightens. Would he still play if he could? Or did that burn away too, along with everything else I—
I absently smooth my curls, grown back rebel-wild after chemo. They're different now. I'm different now. Both of us transformed by things we never saw coming.
He hasn't moved an inch, but his fingers raise to his forehead in what might be a salute or might be a promise. Either way, it makes my SVT threaten to kick in.
Panicking, I duck back inside, pressing my back against the wall next to the balcony door. My heart's doing its own twisted choreography, because even my pulse can't keep its shit together.
Did he really see me? Recognize me? My mind races, paranoia setting in. Of course, he knows I'm here. He's bidding on my hand.
He's here to finish what my father started. Unless that sign meant something. Like a piece of a puzzle where I can escape this nonsense.
My phone buzzes and for one stupid, heart-stopping second, I think it's him. But no—it's Naomi: " Remember, knowledge is power. The more you see, the more you know. Also, I need details because I'm losing my mind in this Chicago penthouse. But more importantly—you okay, Bella? Because I can totally stage a prison break. Dad's security team still loves me more than him."
That message might have made me smile. Even giving me hope.
But seeing Antonio, feeling that raw connection, even from afar, complicated things even more. My life's already a Lifetime movie gone wrong, but sure, universe, throw in the scarred ex-stepbrother with murder eyes. The one who is right to hate me.
Really handling my trauma with kid gloves here, aren't we?
The balcony doors are still open, a gentle breeze swaying the curtains. Before I can even think of closing them, the living room’s door bursts open. Georgio strides in, his face a storm of anger.
"Why are the balcony doors open?" His voice is harsh, the tension in the room escalating. He doesn't wait, storming over to slam them shut. He whirls around, his anger fixed on Luka. "You! You were responsible for her safety!"
Luka, clearly taken aback, stutters, "I–I believed they were locked, sir."
Without another word, Georgio pulls a gun from his holster.
Everything blurs like that moment when the world tilts mid-pirouette—reality going soft at the edges, but unlike my passion of dancing, this time it’s horror staying crystal clear. Georgio's hand moves toward his gun, and I want to scream, to move, to do something, but my body betrays me again. Like with Antonio. Always freezing when it matters most.
And then—the sound.
A gunshot that feels like it tears through my chest instead of the air. Sharp. Final. The kind of sound that rewrites your whole world in one second.
Luka falls.
The scream that rips from my throat doesn't sound human. It sounds like every horrible moment in my life distilled into one sound.
My mind tries to reject what my eyes are seeing, like a failed lift during Swan Lake—this can't be happening, this isn't real, this isn't... But finally, I'm moving, my knees hitting the hardwood floor beside him. His blood is warm on my hands. Too bright. Too real. Every detail brands itself into my memory: his wide eyes, the small "oh" of surprise on his lips, the way his fingers twitch against mine as I try to find a pulse that's already fading.
His blood seeps into the silk of my dress, and all I can think is how it's the exact same shade as the one rose Antonio once cut of our garden for me. When I wasn’t sure Juilliard would ever take me in.
"Clean this up," Georgio says, his voice winter-cold to one of his men. Then he turns to me, still kneeling in Luka's blood. "No more mistakes, Isabella. For your own sake."
I’m the reason he’s dead.