Chapter Forty-Seven
Isabella
Night had fallen over London, casting the penthouse in shadow and the soft blue glow of surveillance monitors. Rain tapped against the windows like impatient fingers. Less than twenty-four hours remained before the Rotterdam operation—what we’d spent months planning and preparing for.
I stood by the window, one hand absently tracing patterns over my stomach where I thought I’d detected some tiny fluttering. The ultrasound images were still on the coffee table where we’d been studying them for hours. Two sons. Two brothers. Two lives that had changed everything about our mission.
Colton moved quietly behind me, his reflection appearing in the darkened glass. He carried two steaming mugs of the herbal tea Doctor Eisenberg had recommended for my iron levels. His suit jacket and tie were gone, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows—small concessions to comfort in a man perpetually armored against the world.
“You should be resting,” he said, handing me one of the mugs. His free hand settled at the small of my back, warmth radiating through the thin fabric of his shirt that I’d taken to wearing.
“I was thinking,” I replied, letting my weight lean slightly against him. “About after. When this is over.”
He made a soft, questioning sound, eyes meeting mine in our reflected image against London’s night sky.
“These past weeks of planning...” I took a careful sip of the tea, grateful for its earthy warmth. “We’ve been so focused on the operation, on taking down the network, that we’ve barely discussed what comes next.”
“After,” he repeated, the word carrying the weight of possibility. “I’ve been thinking about that, too.”
I turned to face him properly, fighting the urge to kissing him. “Have you?”
The smile that touched his lips was different than the fierce joy I’d glimpsed during our time in Tuscany. This was something quieter, more certain.
“I’ve been looking at properties,” he admitted, guiding me toward the couch, away from the window’s exposure. “Near Cooper and Allegra. Nothing as ostentatious as the villa, but...” He paused, waiting until I’d settled comfortably against the cushions. “Land. Space. Security. A place where our sons could grow up without shadows.”
Something tightened in my chest—the recognition of dreams I hadn’t dared voice taking concrete form at his words.
“You want to move to Tuscany?” I asked, studying his face. “Permanently?”
“Yes.” No hesitation, no careful lawyer’s qualification. Just certainty. “Cooper’s been sending listings for days. There’s an old estate about fifteen minutes from the villa. Olive groves, vineyard, enough distance for privacy but close enough for family.”
“Family,” I echoed, tasting the word. Even now, even after everything, it felt fragile on my tongue. A miracle I wasn’t convinced I deserved.
“The main house needs renovation,” he continued, settling beside me, one hand absently moving to cover my stomach in what had become an unconscious habit. “But the foundations are solid. Cooper had specialists assess the structure.” A slight smile touched his mouth. “Apparently, my brother doesn’t trust Italian building inspectors.”
“With good reason,” I murmured, remembering stories Allegra had shared about renovating their villa. “Though I’d have thought his experiences with local craftsmen would have taught him some patience.”
“Patience has never been Cooper’s strong suit,” Colton replied, his thumb tracing small circles over my belly button. “But in this case, I appreciate his thoroughness. The property has potential. Security can be implemented discreetly. The nearest neighbor is two kilometers away.”
I set my mug on the coffee table, replacing its warmth with the heat of his hand clasped in mine. “You’ve been planning this for a while,” I observed.
A shadow crossed his face. “Since the night I found you in that place,” he said quietly. “When I thought I might lose you.” His fingers tightened around mine. “I promised myself that if we survived, if we made it out, I’d build something different. Something safe. Something...” He hesitated, searching for the right word. “Permanent.”
“What about your work?” I asked, the practical question easier than examining the emotions his words had triggered. “Being a lawyer was your life for so long.”
“It was,” he acknowledged. “But I’ve been corresponding with a university in Florence. They have a program on international law. They’re interested in having me join their faculty.”
Surprise must have shown on my face, because his expression shifted to something almost defensive. “Is it so hard to imagine me as a professor?”
“No,” I said quickly, honestly. “You’d be brilliant. It’s just...” I tried to find the right words for the sudden, fierce pride expanding in my chest. “I want it so bad.”
“And you?” he asked, fingers tracing patterns along my wrist. “The art world was your life too.”
“Parts of it,” I agreed, thinking of the endless hours I’d spent studying brush strokes and pigments, the satisfaction of identifying a forgery, the private joy of recognizing genuine brilliance captured in paint or stone. “But there’s a conservation institute near Florence. They’re always looking for authentication specialists. Not full-time, necessarily, but consulting work that would let me be home with the boys.”
“Home,” he repeated, the word sounding like a vow in his mouth.
“I’d need a studio,” I continued, allowing myself to fully imagine it for the first time. “North-facing windows. Good light. Room for the specialized equipment.”
“The property has an outbuilding,” he said, and I could hear the barely contained excitement beneath his measured tone. “Stone walls. High ceilings. It was used as an art studio by the previous owner’s wife.”
I blinked, startled by this perfect detail. “Really?”
“Really.” His smile grew. “Cooper sent pictures. I’ve been saving them to show you when...” He hesitated. “When the timing felt right.”
“May I see them?” I asked softly. “Now?”
He nodded, retrieving his secure tablet from among the surveillance equipment on the dining table. When he returned, he sat closer, his thigh warm against mine as he navigated to a hidden folder.
“Cooper’s been investigating this place for weeks,” he explained as images loaded on the screen. “Security assessments, structural analysis, property boundaries...” He swiped past diagrams and reports to reach photographs. “Here.”
The main house appeared first—a Tuscan farmhouse larger than I’d expected, honey-colored stone glowing in Mediterranean sunshine. Three stories, with a tile roof and green shutters, surrounded by aged olive trees and tangled grapevines climbing hillsides in neat rows.
“It’s beautiful,” I whispered, something inside me responding to the warmth and permanence radiating from the image.
“The interior needs work,” he cautioned, swiping to show rooms with good bones but outdated fixtures. “But nothing structural. Mostly cosmetic updates.”
He continued through images of a spacious kitchen with a stone hearth, living areas with wooden beams crossing high ceilings, bedrooms flooded with natural light. Each photo made the possibility feel more real—a life after all this, a place where our children could grow without fear.
“And the studio?” I prompted when he paused.
His expression shifted to anticipation mixed with uncertainty. “I saved it for last,” he admitted, swiping to a new image.
The building appeared, and my breath caught in my throat slightly. Stone walls weathered by centuries of sun and wind. A wall of north-facing windows, just as I’d requested. Wooden beams supporting a peaked roof. Space—glorious, open space—with light pouring through clerestory windows.
“It’s perfect,” I said, unable to keep the excitement from my voice.
“Cooper had specialists check the foundation and roof,” Colton continued, swiping to show more angles of the space. “Both solid. The previous owner was a sculptor, so the floor is reinforced with concrete under those wooden planks. There’s proper ventilation, water lines already in place. It would need updated electrical, but—”
I silenced him with a kiss, unable to contain the emotion swelling in my chest. His surprise lasted only a moment before he responded, the tablet forgotten as his hand came up to cradle my face.
When we parted, his eyes searched mine. “You like it, then?”
“It’s everything I didn’t know to ask for,” I said honestly. “It’s...” I struggled to find words adequate to explain what his planning meant to me. “It’s home, Colton. You’ve found us a home.”
Something in his posture eased, as if he’d been carrying additional tension I hadn’t recognized until it released. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want to leave London entirely,” he admitted. “Your career, your connections—”
“Were compromised the moment they took me,” I finished for him. “I’ve known there was no going back, not really. The art world I inhabited here is...” I hesitated, trying to articulate the shift I’d felt since my rescue. “It’s part of a past I’m ready to leave behind.”
He nodded, understanding without requiring further explanation. One of the many gifts of this complicated man I’d married was his ability to read between words, to comprehend what remained unspoken.
“When?” I asked, returning to practical matters. “How soon after the operation could we move?”
“The paperwork is already prepared,” he said, and I raised an eyebrow at this example of his meticulous planning. “The sale can be completed within a week of signing. Stryker’s team would handle security upgrades immediately. Basic renovations to make the main house habitable within a month. More extensive work could be done after we’ve moved in.”
“A month,” I repeated, letting the timeframe settle.
“Too soon?” he asked, a hint of uncertainty creeping into his voice. “We could stay in London longer if you prefer, or at Cooper’s villa while the renovations—”
“No,” I interrupted, squeezing his hand. “Not too soon. Perfect timing, actually.” I guided his palm to where one of the twins was fluttering. “They’ll be here in about five months. I’d rather be settled before they arrive.”
His expression softened. “Five more months,” he murmured, love evident in his voice. “Sometimes I still can’t believe...”
“I know,” I said quietly. “After everything, to have this...” My throat tightened with emotion I couldn’t fully express. “It feels impossible.”
“Not impossible,” he said. “Just...fought for. Earned.”
I leaned into him, drawing strength from his solid presence. “One more day,” I whispered. “Then we can start building this future you’ve imagined.”
“That we’ve imagined,” he said, his arm coming around my shoulders. “I just found the location. The rest—what makes it home—that’s something we create together.”
We sat in companionable silence for several minutes, the distant hum of surveillance equipment the only sound. In less than twenty-four hours, everything would change. Rotterdam. The bank. Rodger. All the careful plans we’d made would be set in motion, for better or worse.
“Show me the boys’ rooms,” I said eventually, nodding toward the tablet. “I want to see where our sons will grow up.”
His smile was immediate and genuine, rare enough that each appearance felt like a gift. He retrieved the tablet, finding images of spacious bedrooms with vaulted ceilings and windows overlooking the countryside.
“I think we should remodel so they have connecting rooms,” he explained, pointing to a floor plan. “A shared door between separate spaces. Room for independence but always access to each other.”
“Like you and Cooper had,” I observed.
“Yes.” Something wistful crossed his features. “Though hopefully with fewer midnight escapes through windows.”
I laughed, the sound surprising me with its lightness. “I wouldn’t count on that. Not with Moreau blood.”
“Troublemakers from birth,” he agreed, his tone rich with affection rather than concern. “Though we’ll have more security than our parents ever dreamed of.”
“Stryker’s already planning the system, isn’t he?” I guessed, recognizing the particular satisfaction Colton displayed when operations aligned perfectly.
“Complete coverage without visible intrusion,” he confirmed. “Cooper insisted on paying for that as a...housewarming gift, I believe was his phrasing.”
“Of course he did,” I said, unsurprised. “Allegra must be thrilled we’ll be nearby.”
“Ecstatic,” Colton admitted. “Though I’ve forbidden her from decorating the nursery. There are limits to family involvement.”
The casual use of ‘family’ still caught me by surprise sometimes; the easy inclusion, the assumption of permanence. After years of careful independence, of holding myself separate from attachments that could be used against me, the embrace of Cooper and Allegra into our lives felt amazing.
“Have they told Clara yet?” I asked.
“Cooper thought it best to wait until we’re finished here,” he said. “Clara’s excitement isn’t...easily containable. And we need everyone focused for a few more days.”
I nodded, understanding the precaution while imagining Clara’s eventual delight. She’d become an unexpected ally during my recovery in Tuscany, her straightforward curiosity and unguarded affection breaking through defenses I’d thought impenetrable.
“She’ll want sleepovers immediately,” I predicted, settling more comfortably against Colton’s side.
“All planned for,” he said, his thumb tracing circles on my shoulder.
I tilted my head to study his profile, amused and touched by the thoroughness of this planning. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”
“Not everything,” he admitted, meeting my eyes. “But I’ve tried to anticipate what would make you happy. What would make us secure.”
The simple statement carried weight far beyond its words. This man had redirected all his strategic brilliance toward building something beautiful.
“I wonder sometimes,” I said quietly, “what we would have become if we’d met differently. If there had been no trafficking network, no kidnapping, no rescue.”
His expression grew thoughtful. “I like to think we would have found each other anyway,” he said after a moment. “Perhaps at some gallery opening or auction. You correcting my artistic ignorance. Me boring you with legal jargon.”
The image made me smile. “We might have been normal.”
“Dull,” he corrected with a slight curve of his lips. “Ordinary people leading ordinary lives.”
“Would that have been so terrible?” I asked, genuinely curious.
He considered the question with characteristic thoroughness. “No,” he finally said. “Not terrible. But incomplete, perhaps. I wouldn’t have...” He hesitated, searching for words. “I wouldn’t have known what I was capable of. What was truly important.”
I understood what he meant. For all the trauma we’d endured, all the danger we’d faced, there had also been transformation. Growth. The shedding of comfortable illusions to reveal harder, more essential truths.
“One more day,” I repeated softly, resting my head against his shoulder. “One more battle.”
“And then Tuscany,” he promised, his lips brushing my temple. “Sunshine. Olive groves. No more hiding.”
The weight of tomorrow’s operation pressed against us for a moment, all the risks, all the variables beyond our control. Rodger’s ruthlessness. The lives at stake. The network that had nearly destroyed us once before.
But here, in the quiet sanctuary of our penthouse, surrounded by security measures, planning documents and ultrasound images, the future he described felt not just possible but inevitable.
“I should be terrified,” I admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “About tomorrow. About Rodger.”
“But?” he prompted.
“But all I can think about is that studio.” I smiled against his shoulder. “The light. The space. The quiet.”
I felt, rather than saw, his answering smile. His breath was warm against my hair. “Mrs. Moreau, you’ve become rather romantic.”
“Your fault entirely, Mr. Moreau,” I replied, lifting my head to meet his eyes. “You’ve thoroughly corrupted my practical nature.”
His eyes darkened slightly, thumb tracing the curve of my cheek. “Have I now?”
The tension between us shifted, warming to something more immediate than plans for Tuscan estates and connecting bedrooms. In the soft glow of security monitors and London’s reflected city lights, his expression had changed to something more primal, more possessive.
“Thoroughly,” I confirmed, leaning into his touch. “Beyond redemption, I fear.”
His answering chuckle was low, a physical sensation where our bodies pressed together. “If this is corruption,” he murmured, “I find myself entirely without remorse.”
I shifted to face him fully, my movements made awkward by pregnancy but no less determined. “Let me see,” I challenged softly. “Show me exactly how unrepentant you are.”
His control, always so carefully maintained, especially since discovering my pregnancy visibly wavered. “Isabella,” he warned, though his hand had already moved to my hip. “Doctor Eisenberg said—”
“That second trimester was perfectly safe,” I finished for him, having committed the doctor’s exact words to memory for precisely this argument. “That we simply needed to be careful of positioning.”
His resistance was already crumbling; I could see it in the way his pulse jumped at his throat, in the slight dilation of his pupils. “You need rest,” he tried again, though his voice had roughened. “Tomorrow—”
“Is why I need this tonight,” I said, my hands moving to the buttons of his shirt. “Before everything changes again. Before you become a soldier instead of a lover.”
The last of his careful control dissolved at my words. His mouth found mine with unexpected hunger, kiss deepening immediately as his arms tightened around me. Gone was the hesitant restraint he’d maintained since learning about the twins, replaced by a fierce possessiveness that made my skin flush with heat.
“Isabella,” he breathed against my lips, halfway between prayer and damnation.
“Take me to bed,” I whispered back. “While it’s still just us. Before the world intrudes again.”
He stood in one fluid motion, lifting me with careful hands. The bedroom was shadowed, lit only by city light filtering through the windows. He laid me on our bed with exquisite care, but there was nothing careful about the way he followed me down, mouth reclaiming mine with a hunger that matched my own rising need.
His hands found the hem of my shirt and drew it upward. I lifted my arms, allowing him to remove it entirely, baring my skin to the cool air and his heated gaze.
His breath caught as he took in the changes to my body—fuller breasts, the rounded curve of my stomach where our sons grew. Reverence replaced hunger in his expression as his hand moved to trace the evidence of our love.
“A beautiful masterpiece,” he whispered, and I felt myself flush with pleasure at the raw honesty in his voice.
I reached for him, needing to feel his skin against mine. The buttons of his shirt gave way to impatient fingers, revealing the physical changes of his own transformation—shoulders broader, muscles more defined from Stryker’s regimen.
His lips found my neck, trailing fire down to my collarbone, then lower. My body begged for his touch, greedy for the sensation after weeks of careful distance. Pregnancy had heightened my sensitivity, turned every caress into something that bordered on overwhelming.
“Colton,” I gasped as his mouth found particularly sensitive skin.
His response was nonverbal, a sound somewhere between satisfaction and hunger. His hands resumed their exploration, relearning curves altered by pregnancy, discovering new sensitivities, new responses.
“You’re so perfect,” he murmured against my skin, voice tight with desire. “So impossibly perfect.”
I would have laughed at the absurdity of the statement, me with my scars and trauma and growing belly, but the utter conviction in his tone left no room for disbelief. He meant it. In this moment, with his hands moving over my changed body, he truly saw perfection.
Time slowed, expanded. In the shadowed quiet of our bedroom, surrounded by layers of security and surveillance equipment, we found sanctuary in each other. His movements were careful but not hesitant, mindful of my condition without treating me as fragile. When he finally joined our bodies, it was with exquisite care that somehow heightened rather than diminished the intensity.
“My wife,” he whispered against my throat. “Mine.”
Words failed me, overwhelmed by sensation and emotion. I could only cling to him, nails leaving marks on his shoulders as pleasure built between us. His control was impressive but not infinite; I could feel it fracturing as he responded to my increasingly desperate movements.
Release came in waves, stealing my breath, my vision, my awareness of anything beyond where our bodies met. I felt his control finally shatter in response, his own release following mine with a ragged gasp of my name against my skin.
Afterward, he gathered me close with tender care, arranging our bodies so that no weight pressed against my stomach. One hand splayed protectively over where our sons grew, undisturbed by their parents’ passion.
“I love you,” I whispered into the quiet, the words still new enough to feel like a revelation. “Whatever happens tomorrow. Whatever comes after.”
His arms tightened fractionally, his lips pressing a kiss to my temple. “Nothing happens to you,” he promised, voice fierce despite its softness. “Nothing happens to our sons. I’ll burn down the entire world first.”
The declaration should have frightened me. Once, it would have. But now I recognized it for what it was, not a threat but a vow. Protection offered by the one man I trusted to keep me safe.
“One more day,” I murmured, sleep already pulling at me as the tension left my body. “Then Tuscany.”
“Then home,” he agreed, fingers tracing soothing patterns along my spine. “Then forever.”
Here, in the circle of my husband’s arms, with our sons growing between us, I found something I’d thought lost forever.
Peace. Protection. Possibility.