40. Antonio
Chapter forty
Antonio
" I sabella..." Her mother's voice repeats. It's a fading echo, but it's there.
Isabella's reaction is immediate and visceral. Her eyes widen, her lips part in a silent gasp, and her whole body goes rigid. I can see the conflict warring in her eyes - hope battling with disbelief, longing fighting against years of ingrained caution. Her fingers twitch at her sides, like she wants to reach out and touch the phone, to make this moment real.
And as much as I know Isabella needs this moment, I can't shake the questions rattling around in my skull. Questions that demand fucking answers, that claw at my insides until I feel like I'm going to explode. The room suddenly feels too small, too hot. The tension in the air is so thick I could cut it with a knife, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
Isabella inches forward, but she seems suspended in time—like she's not quite sure any of this is real. Like she can't dare to hope for a sliver of truth in this world of lies we've been living in. The soft rustle of her dress against the hardwood floor is unnaturally loud in the silence.
I'm one of the reasons why she doubts everything, but damn, she needs to be careful. We need to be careful. My fingers twitch, itching to reach for the knife I grabbed from my office. The weight of it against my ribs is a constant reminder of the danger we're in, even here in our own fortress.
"I thought I was coming for dinner and here I am for a show," Connor chuckles, drinking a beer someone must have brought him. I should be aware of every movement in this room, but my focus is split between Isabella and potential threats.
Naomi shakes her head, focused on her best friend. Like I am.
"Are you going to talk to your damn mother or just stand there like a frozen puppet that you are?" Stefanos grits out, and I'm going to fucking deck him. He's going to be my own personal punching bag if he doesn't shut up.
"Give her time," Isabella's mom says as Nikos settles the phone on the table, against a forgotten bottle of wine.
"She could have had this discussion in private," I note, even though I didn't want her to. Who knows if her mother will be telling the truth? But none of the Greek brothers asked for it, either.
I scan the room, taking in the Greek brothers and their varying shades of brooding. Stefanos looks like he's one wrong move away from painting the walls red, his jaw clenched so tight I'm surprised his teeth haven't shattered. He held it together earlier, but now? Now, I can practically feel the murderous intent rolling off him in waves.
Nikos, on the other hand, is watching Isabella like she's a puzzle he's trying to solve, like he's trying to peer inside her head and pick apart all the pieces. But it's nothing compared to the way Alexandros is looking at her.
Alexandros is staring at my wife like he's privy to all her secrets, like he's heard every gasp and moan that I thought belonged only to me. It makes my blood boil, makes me want to slam my fist into his smug fucking face until he forgets every intimate detail he's stolen.
"You didn't want them to talk alone," I state as Isabella finally moves forward. I can see the tremors in her hands, the way her breath hitches with every step. She's terrified, and it kills me that I can't do a damn thing about it.
Isabella ignores all of us. She lets herself fall on the chair closest to the phone and her eyes find her mother's/ "Why?" Isabella's voice is barely a whisper, but it echoes like a gunshot in the stillness of the room. "I heard the story, but why? And how?"
Her mother's chuckle is a fragile thing. It's like even that simple act is a struggle, like she's fighting tooth and nail just to keep breathing.
"Because your father may have been a mafia man, but I am a mafia woman," she says, her words laced with a steely determination that belies her weakened state. "I knew everything there was to know about him. I knew the ways to stay alive. I wanted to believe in a mafia fairytale, but when it didn't work? I became his biggest opponent because he underestimated me." She pauses, and I can hear the smile in her voice when she adds, "Like he underestimated you. You're my daughter and I want to see you. I want to explain."
The words hang in the air, heavy with implication. I can feel the shift in the room's atmosphere, the way everyone seems to be holding their breath, waiting to see how Isabella will react. My own heart is pounding, a steady drumbeat of anxiety and anticipation.
I've seen enough liars in my time to know when someone's holding back. And Isabella's mother? She's got "ulterior motive" written all over her. They all do. The bitter taste of suspicion coats my tongue, and I can't help but think of Elena, safe in her room with Signora Martha. If this goes south, if Isabella's mother is playing us, I'll burn this whole fucking world down to keep my family safe.
"You can start explaining now," I interrupt, my patience wearing thin. "Why do this here and now? Why not send a video? We have our own encrypted channels. We can use the dark web in ways people don't even dream about."
"You wouldn't have believed us," Alexandros replies, his eyes never leaving Isabella. And his smug look makes me want to introduce his face to the hardwood floor. I can almost hear the satisfying crunch his nose would make under my fist
"I have issues believing you now," I growl, stepping forward, my hand resting on the small of Isabella's back. It's a silent show of support and protection, but also a reminder to these fuckers that she's mine. "Enough games. We've played by your rules, but now it's time for some answers. Real answers. No more secrets, no more lies. If you want our help, if you want our trust, then you need to start talking. Now."
I can feel the tension in the room ratchet up a notch, the air crackling with barely restrained aggression. But I hold my ground, my jaw set, my eyes hard as flint. I've come too far, fought too hard, to let anyone - even Isabella's own mother - jeopardize the fragile peace we've built.
And I'll be damned if I let Isabella walk into another trap, another web of deceit and manipulation.
"So," I say, my voice cold as steel. “What's it going to be?”