9. Isabella
9
Isabella
"I won't go." Nico's voice is rough, matching his rigid posture as he stands in our bedroom. "And neither should you."
I finish applying my lipstick, the deep red a stark contrast against my pale skin.
My mother's face flashes in my mind—another "vacation" in Italy, conveniently timed with everything that's happening.
Part of me wonders if she's lounging on some beach in Positano, or if she's orchestrating more chaos from the shadows.
My calls go straight to voicemail, my texts unanswered. Until I confront her, I can't say anything to my siblings or my father.
"Your father invited us to dinner," I say, pushing the thoughts of my mother aside. " After everything that's happened, I need to look him in the eye and give him a piece of my mind or I might just run insane with the amount of things I have to say. ”
"Isabella—"
"I need to do this." I turn to face him, seeing the concern etched on his features. "For both of us."
He crosses the room in three long strides, his hands coming to rest on my shoulders. "You don't have to prove anything."
"I know." I reach up to touch his face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "But I want to."
The drive to the Moretti mansion is tense and quiet.
I've never been here before, and as we pull through the imposing gates, I understand why. The house isn't just a building. It's a reminder of painful memories for Nico.
Maria greets us at the door with a warm smile.
“Welcome Mrs. Moretti.” She smiles lightly as she takes our coats, her hands trembling lightly.
It could be from the cold, but something feels off about her tonight.
“So nice to see you again Maria,” I smile lightly, taking in the tense expression on her face.
Call it paranoia, but the amount of things I've discovered recently has my brain thinking in overdrive. And if I have to keep my eye on Maria all night, then I will.
Dinner is quiet. Tense.
I watch Antonio Moretti, my father-in-law, the man who shaped Nico through cruelty disguised as strength.
This is the first time I've sat so close to him. He wasn't particularly eager to talk to me at the wedding or reception and I shared his sentiment, to be honest.
"I've been thinking about what makes a father," I say carefully, my eyes fixed on Antonio as I cut into my steak. "About the differences between discipline and cruelty. Between teaching and torture."
Antonio's fork pauses halfway to his mouth. Beside me, Nico goes still.
"Did you sleep well those three weeks?" I continue, my voice deceptively soft. "While your thirteen-year-old son was locked in that warehouse, believing he'd been kidnapped by enemies? While he was forced to," My voice breaks, but I force myself to continue, " To kill other teenagers just to survive?"
The dining room temperature seems to drop ten degrees. Antonio's face remains impassive, but I see the slight tightening around his eyes.
"I see he told you. It was necessary," he says finally. "This life requires—"
"Requires what?" The words explode from me. "Requires traumatizing your own son? Staging his kidnapping, making him believe he was fighting for his life, forcing him to take lives just to prove he was 'tough enough' for this world?" My hands are shaking with rage. "He was thirteen. A child. Your child."
Antonio's face hardens. "You speak of things you don't understand, Isabella. This world—"
"I understand perfectly." I cut him off, my voice sharp. "I understand you broke something in him that day. Something he's still trying to piece back together."
I turn to look at Nico, whose face is expressionless but whose eyes are burning with pain.
"But you failed. Because despite everything you did to him, he still kept his humanity. His ability to love. To trust. He survived you."
"Enough." Nico's voice is quiet, but commanding. His hand finds mine under the table, squeezing once. Not to silence me, but to tell me he's okay. That I've said what needed to be said.
The rest of the meal passes in brittle silence, the only sounds the clink of silverware against fine china and the soft padding of Maria's feet as she serves each course.
Throughout dinner, I watch her, the way she hovers near doorways, her constant glances at her phone, the slight shake in her hands as she serves coffee. When she brings out Nico's favorite tiramisu–a dessert, she only makes when she's feeling guilty. According to stories Nico told me–my suspicions solidify.
“Excuse me," I murmur, standing from the table, "I need to use the restroom."
Instead of heading upstairs, I follow the sound of hushed whispers to the kitchen. Maria stands in the corner, speaking rapid Italian—a language she supposedly doesn't know—into her phone.
I move silently, the way Lorenzo taught me, and snatch the phone from her hand. The voice on the other end makes my blood run cold.
"Maria? Are you there?" My mother's voice, sharp with urgency.
The line goes dead.
Maria's face drains with color as she turns to face me. "Miss Isabella—"
"Don't." I murmur, disbelief and hurt coursing through my veins. "But I might help you out of this if you tell me everything."
She immediately crumbles like a house of cards, tears streaming down her face.
"Twenty-five years ago, my son was dying. Leukemia. Your mother—she arranged the treatment that saved his life. I've been in her debt ever since."
Each word is another knife in my heart. "And now?"
"She's threatening him. He lives in Italy and knows nothing about this life. She'll have him killed if I don't help her." Maria's hands twist together. "I love Nico like my son, but I couldn't—"
"Couldn't what?"
We both freeze at Nico's voice. He stands in the doorway, his father's imposing figure right behind him. The look on his face makes my heart stop.
"Lock her up." Antonio's command sends guards streaming into the kitchen. "We need to know everything she's told Francesca."
"Nico—" I reach for him, but he shakes his head, moving back and retreating behind walls I thought we'd torn down together.
The next hour is chaos. My siblings arrive, their faces twisted with shock and rage at the news of our mother's involvement. My father keeps trying her number, growing more frantic with each failed attempt.
"You knew?" Matteo's accusation hits like a physical blow. "You knew our mother was behind this and you didn't tell us?"
"Back off." Nico's voice is quiet, but lethal. "She's been dealing with enough."
Lorenzo paces like a caged animal. "We need to make the old housekeeper talk. Let me—"
"Touch her and I'll break your hands." Nico's threat silences the room.
I watch as he approaches Maria, who sits trembling in a dining room chair. He moves in a controlled and predatory manner.
"Start talking." His voice is terrifyingly calm. "Every detail. Every secret. Everything you've told her about our security, our movements, our plans." He leans closer. "And pray you leave nothing out."
I see the moment Maria breaks, spilling years of secrets onto the pristine dining room floor. Each revelation is another crack in the foundation of what I thought I knew about my family, about loyalty, about love.
My father stands apart from everyone, his face scrunched up in hurt.I want to comfort him, but what comfort can I offer when his wife is the architect of his pain?
Through it all, I watch Nico. The way his shoulders tighten with each new betrayal, the subtle clench of his jaw, the dangerous gleam in his eyes. He's putting up the walls again, brick by brick, and I'm terrified I won't be able to break through them this time.