Julian
Iwatch her disappear around the corner, every instinct screaming at me to follow. But I don't.
I force myself to stay in the shadows of the alley, my hands clenched into fists at my sides, my jaw so tight it aches. What could I do about it? What can I do other than what I've already done… let her go, again?
She's terrified of me.
The thought sits like lead in my stomach. She should be terrified. I just almost killed a man in front of her with my bare hands, dragged her through the streets like a fucking caveman, and told her she's in danger without giving her a single concrete detail she can use to protect herself.
But I can't tell her the truth. I can't tell her about the contract, about the mafia, about the fact that I was supposed to be the one to end her life. She won't believe me. If I just tell her to get out of here, maybe she'll just move on to the next leg of her trip, disappear, before…
Who are you fucking kidding? Isabelle couldn't disappear if her life depended on it… which it does. Whoever goes after her next will just track her the way I did, and they won't hesitate. She'll be dead within hours after she touches down in her next location.
The only person who can protect her is me. If even I can. I'm not sure I'll be able to protect myself.
We're a dead man and woman walking, and the most I could realistically hope for is that we die together.
I'm a fucking idiot.
I've thrown away my life, and for what? A dead woman? One I'll never see again? What the fuck am I doing?
My mind racing, I turn and head in the direction of the one place I'll be able to lie low until I figure out how the fuck I'm going to get out of this.
The streets of Santorini are quieter now, the tourists retreating to their hotels and villas as the night deepens.
I keep to the shadows, my senses on high alert, scanning every face, every doorway, every dark corner for threats.
The rental villa I secured—I planned to hide out there after I finished the hit until I could get out of Santorini—is on the outskirts of town.
It's small and isolated, rented from the kind of guy that doesn't ask questions as long as the money clears.
Perfect for what I need.
I make my way there now, taking a circuitous route to ensure I'm not followed, considering the scene I just made at the bar.
The streets narrow as I climb higher into the hills, the white buildings giving way to older structures, stone and weathered wood.
The villa sits at the end of a dirt road, surrounded by olive trees and scrub brush.
It's single-story, whitewashed like everything else on the island, with a small courtyard and a view of the sea in the distance.
The windows are dark, the door locked. I let myself in with the key the owner left under a potted plant and flip on the lights.
The interior is sparse—a small living area with a worn couch and a coffee table. A kitchenette with a two-burner stove and a mini fridge. A bedroom with a double bed and a single nightstand. A bathroom barely big enough to turn around in. It's not much. But it'll do.
I sink onto the couch, my head in my hands. What the fuck am I doing?
The question has been circling in my mind since I left Ibiza, but it's louder now. More insistent. I should have killed her in that alley. Should have finished the job when I had the chance, when she was too shocked to fight back, when no one was watching.
But I couldn't. I couldn't even make myself try.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out, already knowing who it is.
Unknown Number: Status update?
Maddox. Checking in. Making sure I'm still on track.
I stare at the message for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the keyboard before I type out a response: Tracking target. Complications arose. Will complete within the week as promised.
The reply comes almost immediately: Make sure you do. Client is getting impatient.
My jaw tightens. Understood.
I shove the phone back in my pocket and stand, pacing the small living area like a caged animal.
I need to get the fuck out of here as soon as possible, and run to somewhere so remote that maybe I can hide out until the Capetti family forgets about me.
Fucking Siberia, maybe. And even then, those families have long memories.
I don't know if I'll ever be safe again, even if I do survive the coming days.
Or… I could help her.
I could help her run. Help her hide. Try to find out who ordered the hit and why, and desperately seek out some leverage, a way out, something that will keep Isabelle alive without getting us both killed.
Some way to save us both… which is a pipe dream, but one I keep coming back to, as if it makes any sense at all.
Us.
The word stops me cold. When did I start thinking of this as us? When did Isabelle Montague stop being a target and become someone I'm willing to die for?
I don't have an answer. All I know is that I can't let her die. Even if it means becoming the hunted instead of the hunter.
I check my watch. It's nearly midnight. She'll be back at her hotel by now, probably locked in her room, trying to make sense of what happened. Trying to decide if she should call the police, call her father, or call someone who can help her.
I need to get to her before she does something that will get her killed.
Before I can stop myself or rethink anything, I head for the door, my mind already running through the logistics. I'll go to her hotel, convince her to come with me, bring her back here where I can keep her safe. Simple.
Except nothing about this is simple.
The walk back into town takes nearly thirty minutes, my pace quick but not rushed, my eyes constantly scanning for threats.
The streets are almost empty now, just a few stragglers making their way home from bars and restaurants.
Isabelle's hotel is one of the nicest here, the kind of place that caters to wealthy tourists.
I slip past the front desk without being noticed, taking the stairs instead of the elevator. Her room is on the third floor, at the end of a long hallway lined with identical white doors.
I knock. Three sharp raps. No answer. I knock again, harder this time. "Isabelle. It's Julian. Open the door."
Still nothing. My pulse kicks up. Is she ignoring me? Or is something wrong? I press my ear to the door, listening. No sound from inside. No movement.
Fuck. I pull out my phone and dial the hotel's front desk, keeping my voice low and calm. "Yes, I'm trying to reach a guest. Isabelle Montague. Room 312. Can you connect me?"
There's a pause, then the sound of typing. "I'm sorry, sir, but Ms. Montague checked out about an hour ago."
My blood runs cold. "Checked out?"
"Yes, sir. Is there anything else I can help you with?"
I hang up without answering, my mind racing.
She ran. Of course she did. She's terrified, confused, and I told her to run. She followed instructions, at least, but that won't save her.
Where would she go? Maybe the next leg of her trip, like I told her to, but I don't know what that is. If she goes back to New York, even worse. That's exactly where she doesn't need to be right now.
I pull up her credit card transactions on my phone and scan the recent activity. Nothing yet. But it's only been an hour. She might not have used her card yet.
I head back down to the lobby, my mind working through possibilities. If she's smart, she'll pay cash for everything, avoid leaving a digital trail. But she's also scared, and she's shown she has no idea how to cover her tracks in a situation like this. She doesn't know how to hide or how to run.
She'll make a mistake. And when she does, I'll find her.
I'm halfway across the lobby when I see her.
She's standing near the entrance, her suitcase at her feet, her phone pressed to her ear.
Her face is pale, her eyes red-rimmed like she's been crying, and she's wearing the same dress from earlier, now wrinkled and stained with dirt from our run through the streets.
She looks fragile… and absolutely furious.
I cross the lobby in long strides, and she sees me coming. Her eyes widen, her mouth opening to scream, but I'm faster. Her phone drops to the floor, cracking, but that's fine. She can't use it where we're going; I would have destroyed it anyway.
I grab her wrist—gently this time, not the bruising grip from before—and pull her toward the exit.
"Let go of me!" She tries to wrench free, but I don't release her. "I'm calling the police! I'm—"
"You're coming with me," I say, my voice low and urgent. "Now. Before someone else finds you."
"Someone else?" She's still fighting, her free hand pushing against my chest. "You're the one who—"
"I'm trying to keep you alive." I meet her eyes, letting her see the desperation there, the fear I've been trying to hide. "Please, Isabelle. Trust me."
"Trust you?" She laughs sharply. "You assaulted someone in front of me. You dragged me through the streets. You told me I'm in danger and then refused to elaborate. Why the fuck would I trust you?"
"Because I'm the only one who can protect you."
The words hang between us, and for a moment, neither of us moves.
Then she stops fighting. I don't think it's because she fully believes me, and definitely not because she trusts me. But I can see that she's exhausted and terrified and out of options.
So she gives in.
"Where are we going?" she asks, her voice small.
"Somewhere safe."
She doesn't argue. Just picks up her suitcase and follows me out into the night.
—
The walk to the villa is silent. Isabelle stays a few steps behind me, her suitcase wheels rattling over the cobblestones, her breathing uneven. I can feel her fear radiating off her in waves, mixing with anger and confusion. I want to say something—explain, reassure her, somehow make this easier.
But I don't know what to say. I don't know how to make any of this okay. So I stay quiet and keep walking.