23. Isabella
Chapter twenty-three
Isabella
A ntonio slides a file across the table, his eyes meeting mine briefly before he returns his attention to the truffle risotto. The aroma is heavenly, and I can't help but savor each bite, letting the richness melt on my tongue. It's a momentary escape from my situation. A fleeting comfort in this chaos. A small thing I can enjoy.
And God, I need to enjoy the small things.
But of course, it doesn't last.
With a silent sigh, I reach for the file, my fingers hesitating before I flip it open. The weight of its contents settles on my shoulders like those lead X-ray vests they used during scans. Another reminder of the dangerous game we're playing.
The first thing I notice is their eyes. All three brothers have the same piercing dark blue gaze. The eldest, Alexandros, has a hardened expression, his jaw set and brow furrowed. He looks like a man who's seen too much, who's had to make difficult decisions. And who's willing to make more of them.
The middle brother, Nikos, is harder to read. His face is a mask of neutrality, giving nothing away. But there's a sharpness to his features, a cunning intelligence that tells me he's not someone to underestimate.
And then there's the youngest, Stefanos. Despite the seriousness of his expression, there's a glimmer of mischief in his eyes, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. I can almost picture him charming his way through life, using his looks and charisma to get what he wants.
The file lists their hobbies: soccer, swimming and—I do a double take—stripping. The youngest apparently worked as some sort of Chippendale before joining the family business.
Their pet peeves. No allergies. Nothing yet about their actual work. But plenty about their parents, including their mother who is still very much in their lives.
There are photos of them with their mother. Stefanos actually posted them on social media like they're not living their lives surrounded by blood and murder and crime.
Their mother is smiling. Happy.
Alive.
A scream lodges in my throat, but I swallow it down like those oversized pills during treatment.
My mother. When I heard Antonio mention my mother and her history and her ties to a mafia world everyone hid from me, I wanted to clutch the tablecloth and count my breaths like my cardio nurse taught me. Because I still remember the day she died.
The tires screeching. The screams. The metallic scent of blood hung heavy in the air, mingling with the acrid smell of burnt rubber. I stood there in my ballet slippers, scuffing against the rough pavement, my heart pounding in my ears as the realization slowly sank in: she was gone. The world tilted on its axis, and I felt like I was falling, falling, falling into a void of grief and confusion.
She always picked me up with a warm smile and one of those apple juice boxes I loved. "Hi my little love," she would say, her voice like honey. "Did you dance with the stars?" She meant the stars on the ceiling. How the dance teacher would turn off all the lights so we could twirl and twirl as if we were dancing in the night sky.
And then we'd chat about everything and nothing. She'd tell me what Pavarotti had been up to, her eyes sparkling with mischief. She'd ask me what moment had made me smile the most during the day, genuinely interested in every detail of my life.
And she'd tell me my father was waiting for us, a promise of love and security. But that day, she never came.
I looked for her. I heard... I shake my head, refusing to cry, to crumble, to crash into that sadness. I take another sip of wine, staring at Antonio. "My mother..." I clear my throat. "My mother would want me to stay alive. Staying alive sounds good. So fine, I'll listen. I'll play a role."
I inhale deeply, thinking about Elena, about the life she should be allowed to lead, the choices she should be allowed to make for herself. Maybe by playing by their rules a little longer, I can help her, too.
"But I need you to tell me more about my grandparents," I continue. "I never knew anything about them. About my parents' marriage. About..."
"They were a love match," Antonio grumbles.
I nearly choke on my wine, the liquid burning my throat like that first swallow of contrast dye during a PET scan.
Trying to remember what my father told me. Yes, he said he loved her. But didn't he try to sell me the auction as a way of life? And after everything I've found out about him, it's hard to believe he had real feelings once.
My parents, a love match? It seems like a cruel joke, a twisted fairy tale that ended in blood and tears. I set my glass down, my fingers gripping the stem so tightly my knuckles turn white.
"A real love match," Antonio continues, his voice softening. "Once they met, there was no other for them. They seemed ready to escape and elope. They seemed ready to leave everything behind to be together."
I close my eyes, trying to picture it: my parents, young and in love, ready to defy the world for each other. But the image shatters as quickly as it forms, replaced by the cold reality of my father's betrayal and my mother's death.
It's harder to imagine my father not doing something just to benefit himself. The man who arranged an auction for his daughter's hand isn't exactly the romantic type.
"Your mother was from a bigger family than your father's."
Ah, that makes more sense. Power, alliances, control. The currency of our world.
Antonio tilts his head. "But he apparently told his father he'd renounce everything for her."
I raise an eyebrow, a bitter laugh threatening to escape. "My father has changed," I manage to utter. "Or maybe he was always this way, even when he played Mafia Romeo with my mother and we were just too blind to see it." I pause. "And I guess I'm like my mother in many ways... swayed by the appeal of love, not realizing they're sharp mirrors and toxic smoke."
Antonio gives me one of those looks that has my shoulders tightening. It's filled with regret, but I can't believe his looks. Or his words. Or him. Not after everything.
He leans back in his chair. "Apparently, your mother got pregnant with you and... having a child meant they weren't just fighting for themselves. They wanted to keep you safe..."
"And then my father planned an auction right after my birth and my mother told him 'Sure honey, sounds like the perfect plan'?" I can't help the hurt from slicing through my voice. Because the story he's telling me doesn't soothe the pain. It doesn't stop the throbbing in my heart. My mother knew about the plans. She knew. He'd been planning it for years. What changed between them? Did they stop loving one another? Did one hurt the other so much they came to a point of no return?
As I look at Antonio, there's a whisper in the chaos of my mind that wonders if we're not just doomed to repeat history, like some twisted version of "Groundhog Day." It's as if we're trapped in a never-ending dance, our bodies pressed together, skin against skin, even as we leap and twirl to the same tragic tune that consumed my parents.
Because Antonio, with his smoldering gaze and infuriating half-grin, just couldn't resist using our past, my trust, and my guilt against me. He stretched my feelings for him like a rubber band, pulling and pulling until they snapped, leaving me with nothing but a stinging pain and shattered memories.
And yet, even now, I can't ignore the heat that coils in my belly when he looks at me like that, the way my traitor heart skips a beat when his hand brushes against mine. The same heart that had SVT episodes, that betrayed me through cancer. Now betraying me again with Antonio.
Just call us the poster children for doomed relationships with a side of undeniable but deadly chemistry.
Franco opens the door without a sound, precise as always, like every movement is choreographed. He takes our empty risotto plates and sets down new ones with a dish I recognize instantly: Polpette alla Napoletana.
My heart doesn't just skip. It performs a dangerous grand jeté and crashes with no safety net. Ridiculous that meatballs could hit me like chemo drugs, but here we are. I'm staring at my plate like it contains answers instead of food, watching steam rise in spirals that remind me of how I used to spin until I couldn't tell where the dance ended and I began.
I can't look up at Antonio. Can't risk seeing his face. Is he remembering too? Or has he burned that memory along with everything else we used to be?
The kitchen that afternoon. Rain tapping against windows like impatient fingers on a barre. The scent of garlic and tomatoes thick as stage smoke. Our laughter—God, when was the last time we laughed?—echoing off tiles as we shaped meatballs with clumsy hands that kept finding excuses to touch.
Back then, every brush of his fingers sent electricity racing up my arm. I thought it meant something.
My father had left him behind that day. I never asked why, but Antonio's eyes told me everything—that tight, hard look he'd get after my father had finished with him. His mother wasn't home—maybe picking up flowers or visiting Naomi's father.
We'd collided in the kitchen, and he'd growled that he was hungry in that way that was more than just about food. Signora Martino supervised while we cooked, but when I accidentally dumped in too much hot pepper, the tension between us shattered. We'd laughed until we cried, tears streaming down our faces as we gasped for air between bites that burned our tongues.
I clear my throat, trying to silence memories that have no place here. There won't be any laughing until crying today. My fingers hover over my fork, hesitating.
"They have a kick, but not that much of a kick," he whispers, voice rough as stone against silk.
Damn my pulse for racing at that sound, my skin for heating under his gaze. Three months in isolation hasn't killed this stupid, dangerous hunger. My body apparently hasn't gotten the memo that he's the enemy.
"At least you didn't poison them," I bite out, then wince at my own words. Blade-sharp reminder of Henrik's poisoned knife. Not my doing, but still—
"I didn't."
"I'm pretty sure Signora Moretti thought we did with those meatballs back then," he rasps, and there's something in his voice that makes my stomach clench.
When I finally look up, I'm unprepared for the raw intensity burning in those midnight eyes. For one heartbeat, the air between us ignites, suspending us in a time before betrayal, before fire carved his face, before cancer carved mine.
I dig my fingernails into my palm until pain blooms. Not for grounding this time, but for punishment. How dare my heart still want what my mind knows is poison? He plotted my isolation, executed my imprisonment, burned every bridge I thought we'd built.
But there's too much at stake for this to be about us. The Greeks. The dinner. Naomi. I draw in a breath that feels like swallowing knives.
"Tell me three things we never want anyone to know about you," I tell him, lifting my chin like I'm about to face an audience after a terrible rehearsal.
"Three things only?" He pauses, eyes narrowing. "Why?"
"Because I don't trust you." The words taste like truth. Sharp and necessary. "And knowing those things may not change anything, but at least they might help me play pretend." I bite my lower lip, hating the vulnerability in my voice. "I'll share, too. If you're right and the brothers can sense lies, if like you've written in those files, they've honed those skills, then we need to have a non-verbal communication that doesn't scream hate and pain."
"Fine," he replies, and I brace myself for more lies. For a split second, his mask slips, and I glimpse something so raw it makes my chest ache. "That day in the kitchen. Your father had spent the morning before leaving training me. For a split second he almost looked pleased and then he said he wanted me to murder someone with my bare hands."
My lungs forget how to work. Antonio had just turned seventeen then. The week before, he'd watched me dance like I was creating something beautiful instead of just moving; he'd rescued Pavarotti from a high cabinet the cat couldn't get down from; he'd sat through a terrible romcom just because I was sad that Naomi was spiraling into depression after bullies at school had targeted her. And my father had forbidden me from seeing or speaking to her.
"Not someone," he continues, and the world narrows to just his voice, just those eyes that have seen too much. "He wanted me to kill Naomi."
My blood freezes, heart stuttering that dangerous rhythm that signals trouble. I'd been worried about the dinner, about keeping up appearances, about surviving this cage, but this is so much worse than I imagined. So much darker.