18. Roman #2
He howls beneath me, hands flailing, blood dripping from his broken nose.
I lean in close, still pinning him down with my hand on his neck. “Mention her again,” I whisper, “and I’ll tear your fucking tongue out before you get the chance to apologize.”
I yank his head back with his hair so he sees my face. So he knows that my threat is a promise waiting to be fulfilled.
“If Marco reaches out to you, you’ll tell me immediately, or so help me god, I will end you.”
The sound of carefree laughter reaches from the depths of the house as I walk in—like sunlight spilling out of an open window. I follow it without thinking, and it takes my steps to the kitchen, where Isabella’s standing by the counter, a glass of wine in hand.
Leo and Polina are present too, but from the scene that greets me, she seems to have been talking with Leo. I don’t get to find out what they were talking about because he sees me over her shoulder and winks.
“You’re in time for dinner.”
“Dinner?” I repeat, puzzled.
Isabella whirls around, and I watch her expression, waiting for a hint to understand what I walked into. But she’s barely readable.
“Yeah,” Leo replies. “Isabella asked me to stay for dinner, and I wasn’t about to refuse Polina’s amazing steak and a good bottle of wine.”
My gaze darts to the counter again, and I see not one but two glasses of wine and a bottle of Merlot. I look at Isabella again, my brows furrowing as my confusion spreads.
When did they become best friends?
And why does it feel like she didn’t expect me to return this early? It’s my home, but I feel like a third party. An intruder.
“How would you like your potatoes, sir?” Polina asks. “Baked or roasted? Would you like roasted vegetables or salad?”
“Oh—” Leo snaps his fingers before I reply. “You should go with baked, and roasted vegetables. Isabella swears by them—she says they’re amazing.”
How much time did they spend together? I told Leo to watch over her because I trusted him to keep her safe, and for the company—but not so they could bond.
“Leo,” I hiss through my teeth, “I need to speak to you. Outside.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder when he hesitates. “Now.”
I turn without bothering to find out if he’s following, walking down the hallway until we’re out of earshot. “What was that?”
He shakes his head. “What was what ?”
I hold my tongue to keep from sounding like an insecure man, even though I just returned from Igor Smirnov, where I showed him that she’s mine.
Leo wouldn’t go that far. “Nothing,” I say, my tone clipped. “I don’t want dinner. Tell Polina to set the table for you two.”
“Ah, nope.” Leo grabs my arm before I can leave. I whirl, arching a brow. “She’s your wife. If anybody should be having dinner with her, it’s you.”
“Aren’t you best friends already?” It slips out. That spark of jealousy. It slips, and Leo catches on quickly.
He tosses his head back, laughing. “You’re worried that I might be making a move on her?”
A muscle in my jaw twitches as I ignore his jab where it hits. “Why would I?” I ask, throwing on an air of indifference. “She’s my wife because I need her to be.”
He gives me a pointed, knowing look that sees through my lie.
Then he shrugs. “If you say so. But I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t do that to you.
I was only doing as you said, keeping her company.
She wanted a bottle of wine. I couldn’t say no when she poured me one, and the next thing I know, I’m getting invited for dinner. ”
“Why would she ask you?”
“Maybe because she didn’t want to eat alone? If you’re wondering why she didn’t extend the invite to you, maybe you should ask her. My job’s done here,” he says with a mock salute. “Goodnight.”
There’s no reason to keep him back, so I let him go, but I don’t move. I stand in the hallway for another minute, maybe two, until the silence feels heavier than the tension. Then I head for the kitchen.
Isabella frowns when I walk in alone. “Where’s Leo?”
“He left,” I reply.
Her eyes flick to the door, then settle on me again with a hint of disappointment. Maybe even accusation.
“He had other things to attend to,” I add, a little too quickly.
“Oh.” She glances at the counter, lips pressed together as her expression falls. “I don’t know who’s going to eat the food now. Polina made enough for two.”
Me.
She could ask me. One word, and I’d sit down. I’d eat with her. But she doesn’t.
And I don’t offer.
“Goodnight,” I say stiffly. As I walk away, I remember my conversation with Igor about her mother. Leo’s words come to mind again. “Maybe she didn’t want to eat alone.”
I look over my shoulder in time to see her slump. She reaches for her glass, lifting it. It touches her lips, but she doesn’t drink.
“Mashed potatoes for me, Polina,” I say as I return. Isabella’s eyes brighten as she looks up, and she almost looks pleasantly surprised. “I’ll have a glass of wine too,” I add, reaching for the Merlot.
I pour myself a glass and refill hers without saying a word. “Thanks,” she mutters.
You’re welcome. I’m so sorry about what happened to your mother. We could eat dinner together every night if you want.
“Sure,” I say instead, sitting with her.
As she drinks, a smile forms on her lips. The feeling it brings is unexpectedly warm and pleasant, settling snugly in my chest.
How much of the truth does she know? I wonder. I could tell her now, breaking the last shred of loyalty—if any—that she has for Marco Ricci. If done correctly, Isabella could become my best tool to find him.
Cruel. Ruthless. Unrelenting.
Just like me.
It fits right in with my plan, yet somehow, it’s the last thing I want.
It’s ironic—how I’ve gone from wanting to break her apart to wanting to protect her with every breath. She was mine because she belonged to Marco, and now she’s mine because I can’t seem to let her go.