Chapter Thirty-Two
Colton
Something was wrong with Isabella.
I watched her train with Stryker, noting changes only someone who loved her would see. The slight tremor in her hands before morning sessions. The way she’d pause sometimes, swallowing hard before continuing. The pallor that hadn’t faded despite weeks of Italian sun and careful nutrition.
The morning light through the training room’s windows cast everything in harsh relief, making it impossible to miss how her collarbones stood out more sharply than they should, how her training clothes hung slightly loose despite her regained strength. She moved through each sequence with brutal determination, but I could see the cost in the fine sheen of sweat on her forehead, in the way her hands would clench between sets to hide their shaking.
“Her form is improving,” Stryker said, joining me at the window, moving with that contained energy I’d learned to recognize—always aware, always assessing. “But something’s off.”
“You see it too?”
He nodded, his military assessment matching my own concerns. “She pushes too hard in the mornings. Like she’s trying to prove something. Or hide something.”
The training room itself seemed to reflect her struggle—half the equipment was still in boxes, waiting to be properly set up. Like us, this space was in transition. Becoming something new. Something stronger. The morning sun caught dust particles in the air, making them dance like memories we couldn’t quite grasp.
I’d started coming here early, before she woke, working through my own training routines until my muscles burned and my mind quieted. Sometimes I’d find evidence she’d been there even earlier—a water bottle out of place, a training mat slightly askew. Both of us fighting our demons during the silence of the pre-dawn hours, neither quite ready to share that vulnerability.
The observation hit uncomfortably close to my own fears. I’d noticed her slipping away early each day, spending more and more time with Allegra, and less time with me. Pulling away from me.
“Could be trauma,” I said, more to convince myself than him. “PTSD. Recovery.”
“Could be.” But his tone suggested he doubted it. “Your girl’s tough, but she’s carrying something heavy. Something she’s not ready to share.”
I watched her complete another sequence, her movements precise despite obvious fatigue. Always so determined to be perfect. To be strong. To be unbroken.
“Give her time,” Stryker advised, reading my tension. “Some battles need fighting alone before you can accept help.”
“I should be able to help her.” The words carried more frustration than I intended. “After everything...”
“You are helping.” He clapped my shoulder. “By being there. By waiting. By letting her choose when to trust.”
Trust. Such a fragile thing after what she’d endured. What they’d done to her.
“She’s different at night,” I said quietly. “When the nightmares come. More vulnerable. More...”
“Real?”
“Honest.” I remembered how she’d clung to me after the last bad dream, letting me hold her while she shook. “Like she doesn’t have to be perfect then.”
“Because darkness hides everything.” Stryker’s voice carried old knowledge. “Even strength.”
On the training mats, Isabella stumbled slightly. I started forward automatically, but Stryker’s hand on my arm stopped me.
“Let her recover on her own,” he said. “She needs to know she can.”
I forced myself to stay still, watching as she regained her balance. Her face was too pale, but her eyes held fierce determination.
“That’s enough for today,” Stryker called, ignoring her protest. “Cool down exercises only.”
She started to argue, then swayed again. This time I moved before Stryker could stop me.
“I can handle this,” she said as I reached her. But she let me steady her, one hand gripping my arm. “Just tired.”
“Of course you are.” I kept my voice neutral. “You’ve been training for hours.”
But this was more than training fatigue. I could feel fine tremors running through her body, see how she fought to control her breathing.
“Let me help?” I kept it a question, always a question now. Never assuming, never demanding.
She hesitated, that familiar war between pride and need playing across her features. Then, slowly, she nodded.
“Just...to my room.” Her voice was smaller than usual. “I need to shower.”
I supported her carefully as we walked, letting her set the pace. Letting her maintain the illusion of control even as she leaned more heavily on me with each step.
Allegra appeared as we reached Isabella’s door, medical kit in hand. Something passed between the women, a silent understanding I couldn’t quite read.
“I’ve got this,” Allegra said. “Girl things.”
Isabella’s grip on my arm tightened fractionally before she let go. “I’m fine,” she said again. “Really.”
But she wouldn’t meet my eyes.
I watched them disappear into her room, and heard the shower start. I wanted to follow, to help, to fix whatever was wrong.
Instead, I went to find Cooper.
My brother was in his study, surrounded by surveillance photos and shipping manifests. Still hunting the bank’s network, still planning our revenge. Picking up the slack for me while I focused on Isabella.
The study itself seemed to mirror Cooper’s transformation—everything in this room spoke of permanence, of history. The leather-bound books lining walnut shelves, the Italian marble paperweights, the perfect organization of a man who’d found his peace.
“Something’s wrong with Isabella,” I said without preamble.
He looked up, unsurprised. “You noticed.”
“Of course I noticed.” I dropped into a chair, suddenly exhausted. “She’s sick. Or hurt. Or...”
“Or?”
“I don’t know.” I ran a hand through my hair, frustrated. “She won’t tell me. Won’t let me help.”
Cooper was quiet for a moment, studying me with uncomfortable intensity. The scotch he poured was the good stuff, an eighteen-year-old Macallan he saved for serious conversations. The crystal glasses caught afternoon light from his study windows, casting amber shadows on the antique desk between us.
“How do I help?” The question felt inadequate. “How do I make this right?”
“You don’t.” Cooper moved to pour us both scotch. “You just love her. Support her. Wait.”
“I’m not good at waiting.”
“No.” His smile was wry. “Neither of us are. But some things are worth waiting for.”
The scotch burned, but not enough to ease the ache in my chest. The need to fix this. To protect her. To make everything right.
I wanted to voice my fear to Cooper, but putting it into words seemed like a bad omen. But internally, my head swam. Did she pull away because she no longer wanted me? Was she mad that I hadn’t saved her? That I wasn’t quick enough, or smart enough when it truly mattered? Did she look at me and just see the evidence of my shortcomings?
Through the study’s open windows, I could hear Clara in the garden, her voice carrying clearly in the warm afternoon air. My niece was singing in French, a lullaby Allegra had taught her. The sound wrapped around us like another kind of memory, a reminder of what family meant. Of what healing could look like.
The vineyard stretched beyond her, neat rows of vines marching towards distant hills. Everything growing according to plan. But even here, wildflowers sprouted between the rows, bright splashes of color against the vines. Like Isabella’s strength. Like love itself.
“She thinks she has to be strong all the time,” I said, watching the light play through aged scotch. “Has to be perfect.”
“Like someone else I know?” Cooper’s voice carried that knowing tone that had irritated and comforted me since childhood. He settled deeper into his leather chair—the one that had been our father’s, worn smooth by generations of difficult conversations. “Sometimes the hardest thing is letting someone see you break.”
“I’ve seen her break.” The memory of finding her in that cell still haunted me. “Seen her put herself back together.”
“No.” He leaned forward, serious now. “You’ve seen her survive. Break is different. Break is letting someone catch you when you fall. Really fall.”
I thought of her in the night, when nightmares came. How she’d let me hold her then, let me see past the strong front she tried to put on.
“She’s trying so hard,” I said softly. “To be strong. To be whole.”
“Then let her try.” Cooper’s voice held wisdom. “But be there when she can’t anymore. When she’s ready to trust that falling doesn’t mean breaking.”
“You’re right.”
We were both quiet, finishing our scotch.
“You’re extra broody today,” Cooper observed after a moment, refilling our glasses. The scotch caught sunlight like liquid gold. “Even more than usual. I can practically hear you thinking.”
“Just remembering,” I said, though it was only partly true. “Before I knew about what was happening at the bank. Before Isabella. I actually thought my life was perfect.”
“Perfect isn’t real, Colton.” He gestured toward the vineyard. “Look out there. Every vine, every grape—they all have flaws. Little imperfections that give them character. That make them worth something.”
“Like us?”
“Like all of us.” He smiled slightly. “The trick isn’t being perfect. It’s finding someone who loves your particular kind of flawed.”
The study had grown darker, the afternoon light fading to evening. Soon Allegra would call us for dinner. Soon Isabella would come down, composed again. Soon we’d all pretend nothing was wrong while watching her push food around her plate.
But right now, we were just brothers sharing scotch and wisdom in a room full of memories. Just the sound of Clara’s laughter floating up from the garden. Just love, imperfect and real and worth every moment of waiting.
“I love her,” I said simply. “All of her. Even the broken parts.”
“Then tell her.” Cooper squeezed my shoulder. “When she’s ready to hear it.”
I nodded, understanding finally. Some things couldn’t be fixed. Couldn’t be protected.
Some things just had to be loved.