43. Isabella
Chapter forty-three
Isabella
T he door slams shut behind us with a thud that reverberates through my bones. I lean against it, feeling its solid weight press against my spine, the cool wood seeping through my thin dress. It's real. Tangible. Unlike the surreal nightmare that was dinner.
My heart's pounding, but not in that terrifying, I-might-die-any-second way I got used to in the hospital. This is different. Stronger. Like the moment before a curtain rises, when anything feels possible. I close my eyes, remembering the flutter in my stomach before my first lead performance, the way my skin tingled with anticipation, how the world narrowed to just me and the stage. That's what I need to hold on to—not the little spark of fear that anything could include, you know, death, torture and all that.
I breathe in deeply, catching the scent of my room - a mix of vanilla body lotion and the old books on the shelves. The familiar smell wraps around me like a comforting blanket, grounding me even as my brain tries to catch up with everything that just happened.
My life's been spinning off its axis for years, but this? This is next level. My mom's alive. There are Greek mafia hunks making cryptic promises. And Antonio... What happened in his office... The way he’s following on his promises.
It's like someone's taken my world, tossed it in a blender, and hit chopped.
Naomi's pacing, her designer heels—ones she never wore before—click clacking on the hardwood floor. Her fingers keep twisting in her hair, tugging at it like she's trying to physically yank the thoughts out of her head. When she finally looks at me, her eyes are wide, shiny with unshed tears.
"The fuck, the fuck, the fuck?" she whispers, her voice cracking. Her lip's trembling, and I can see she's barely holding it together. Oh, in the dining room, she was all confidence and comedic timing. But now? Now she’s my best friend who’s strong and resilient, and had her own world pureed in that same Mafia blender.
"I mean: what the fuck?" she continues, words spilling out faster now. "How can you be so calm? How can you not just scream and pinch yourself to make sure this isn't some kind of weird fucking dream?"
I want to tell her I'm not calm, that inside I'm screaming louder than I ever did during my toughest ballet rehearsals. But the words stick in my throat.
"Like, you heard your mother, right? And the three Greek adonis? And you saw the way Alexander looks at you? And Antonio?" Her voice rises, taking on that sharp edge it gets when she's stressed. "And ohmygosh, Antonio has a little girl? I mean, I heard. But seeing him go all Daddy-will-scorch-the-earth-for- my-wife-and-kid? It's kind of hot, right? Like lava in your veins hot?"
I feel my cheeks heat up, because she's not wrong. Even now, I can't help but remember the intensity in Antonio's eyes, the possessive grip of his hand on my thigh. It was like being back on stage, every nerve ending alive and singing.
Naomi takes a deep, shuddering breath, and I see the moment her brave face crumbles. "And my father... Oh my father."
The tears she's been fighting finally spill over, coursing down her cheeks. In that moment, she looks so much like the girl I met years ago, scared and trying to be brave, it makes my chest ache.
As quickly as I can, I push myself away from the heavy door and step across the room, wrapping her in a hug. hits me then – this isn't just about my mom. Naomi's grieving her dad all over again.
"I've got you," I murmur, my own voice thick.
Naomi's fingers dig into my shoulders, holding on tight. It's strange, being the strong one for once. But after everything – the hospital, the auction, Antonio – maybe I'm stronger than I thought.
"We'll figure this out," I tell her, my voice steadier than I feel. "You and me against the world, remember?"
Naomi lets out a watery chuckle against my shoulder. "Just like old times, huh?" She pulls back, wiping her eyes. "Except now, instead of sneaking past your dad's security to get me into your hospital room, we're dealing with... all this."
I nod, feeling a lump in my throat. "Yeah, when your biggest worry was nailing that internship interview, and mine was... well, staying alive long enough to dance again."
"Bella," Naomi whispers, her voice cracking. "How did we get here? It feels like yesterday we were planning our great escape to college, and now..."
"Now we're married to mafia men and my mom's pulled a Lazarus act," I finish for her, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.
Naomi's quiet for a moment, then says, "You know what I miss most about my dad? The way he'd tell me to chase my dreams, no matter how wild they seemed. 'The world needs more voices,' he'd say. Now look at us. Silenced by secrets and lies."
I squeeze her hand. "He was right, you know. And that's exactly what we're going to do now. Speak up, fight back."
A spark of the old Naomi flashes in her eyes. "So, what? We take on the mafia with my communications degree and your toe shoes?"
I can't help but laugh. "Hey, don't underestimate the power of well-crafted words and a perfectly timed grand jeté."
Naomi snorts, a mix of laughter and tears. "Alright, Ballerina Badass. You dance, I'll spin the story. We'll bring down empires with grace and killer press releases."
"That's the spirit," I say, feeling a genuine smile spread across my face. "They may have the guns and the power, but we've got each other.”
"Always," Naomi replies, her grip on my hand tightening. "Just like old times. Only this time, we're not just surviving."
"We're thriving," I finish. "And showing these mafia men what we're really made of."
And as I hold my best friend, I realize it's true. Whatever my mother, the Greeks, or even Antonio have planned, they've got another thing coming. Because this ballerina? She stitched herself back together more than once and her spine? It’s made of the steel they thought they burned.
"Now, tell me what's been happening in Ireland? What's going on with Connor?"
As soon as the question leaves my lips, Naomi flops onto my bed with a dramatic groan. The mattress bounces slightly, and I'm reminded of all those sleepovers we had as teenagers, whispering secrets into the night.
"What's going on with my supposedly booming-with-laughter husband?" she asks, staring at the ceiling. "The one who's more growl-y at home than a dog with a bone?"
I settle next to her, the familiar scent of her perfume - jasmine and vanilla - wrapping around me like a comforting blanket. "That one," I confirm, my voice soft. "There's something happening there, Naomi. The way he looked at you... The way he seems to care. It's different."
Naomi turns her head to face me, her eyes filled with a mix of emotions I can't quite decipher. She lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, but I can see the tension in her jaw. "It's all a ploy," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "All of it. We're really married and fake dating. I'm a virgin. I'm the virginest married mafia lady out there. I swear if I were going to write my own story, it’d become a bestseller for tension but not dick action."
She presses a finger to her lips, a bitter smile twisting her mouth. "But psssttt... don't tell anyone. Our marriage could be annulled. This is ridiculous." As she sits back up, she hugs one of the pillows. "You want the dirty details of our wedding night? Buckle up, buttercup, 'cause it's a wild ride of absolutely nothing happening."
I can't help but lean in, curiosity piqued. "Spill."
"Picture this," Naomi begins, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I told him before the wedding. I said the wedding night needs to be mine."
She pauses, her fingers twisting in the bedspread. "I want you to at least pretend to want me," she continues, shaking her head like the memory burns her like acid.
I lean in, catching the faint scent of her shampoo – the same brand she's used since high school.
"I told him that with all the shit that had just happened, I wanted to play pretend for a day. On my wedding and our wedding night. Some romance..." Naomi's voice trails off, her eyes distant.
"It was going to be the night," she says softly. "Even if in the morning I remember none of the choices were mine, that night was my choice. And he was my choice for that night."
She lets out a humorless laugh, the sound sharp in the quiet room. "So, here I am after the Irishest ceremony of Irish wedding ceremonies, dolled up in some ridiculous white lace number that probably cost more than my college tuition."
Naomi's lips twist into a wry smile. "And Connor? Still rocking the kilt, looking like he's trying to solve a Rubik's cube with his eyes."
"Sounds... romantic?" I offer.
"Oh, it gets better," Naomi continues, her voice a mix of amusement and exasperation. "Mr. Broody McIrishman stalks over, right? I'm thinking, 'This is it, fireworks time.' And then he hits me with this gem: 'Make some noise, love. Gotta convince the lads we're consummating this shite.'"
I nearly choke on air. "He didn't!"
"Oh, he did," Naomi confirms, nodding vigorously. "So there I am, auditioning for Porn Star of the Year, while Connor's treating it like a spectator sport. Sipping his whiskey, watching me with those damn intense eyes of his."
"And then?" I prompt, caught between horror and fascination.
Naomi throws her hands up. "And then nothing! Zip. Nada. The great Connor passes out in his chair, leaving me high and dry and questioning all of my life choices."
She pauses, and I catch a flicker of something in her eyes - frustration, confusion, maybe even a hint of desire? "But here's the kicker. Sometimes... sometimes I catch him looking at me like he wants to eat me alive. And don't even get me started on the coffee he leaves by my bed every morning, with those little Gaelic notes I can't understand."
I squeeze her hand. " Sounds... complicated," I offer, feeling as useless as I did trying to explain quantum physics in high school. My own messy situation with Antonio flashes through my mind, making my stomach clench like it did before a difficult performance.
"Complicated?" Naomi snorts. "It's like trying to read Oscar Wilde backwards while drowning in the arctic sea." She flops back on the bed with a groan. "I swear, this man is going to drive me insane. And the worst part? Part of me kind of wants to let him."
She inhales deeply. “Anyway. On the bright side? Ireland is gorgeous. His castle – because yes, he has a castle – is pretty modern. The views? Breathtaking. But our marriage is a sham. I’m living the life as you can see.”
I sit there for a moment, my mind whirling like I've just come off a series of fouettés. Naomi's words hit me in the gut, harder than any fall I've taken on stage. The weight of her situation, of both our situations, settles over me like the suffocating heat before a thunderstorm.
"Shit, Naomi," I finally breathe out, my voice barely above a whisper. "That's... that's beyond..." I try to find the right words but all I come up with is “... fucked up.”
Naomi looks at me with a rueful smile. "Yeah," she agrees. "It really is majorly fucked up."
I reach out, taking her hand in mine. "I get it, you know," I tell her, my free hand absently tracing the phantom ache in my side where Antonio's touch still burns. "The confusion, the frustration. It's like being thrust into a ballet you've never rehearsed, expected to nail every step while the audience waits for you to fall. It’s having feelings you don’t understand and yet they brew right below the surface waiting for an outlet or an explosion.”
Naomi squeezes my hand, her eyes meeting mine. For a moment, we're silent, the understanding between us deeper than words.
"We're quite the pair, aren't we?" Naomi finally says, a hint of her old humor creeping back into her voice.
I can't help but chuckle. "Yeah, we are. The virgin mafia wife and the ballerina with an undead mother turned... whatever I am now."
Naomi leans her head on my shoulder, and I feel some of the tension drain out of her. "At least we're in this mess together, right?"
"Always," I promise. And I mean it. No matter what happens next, we’ll find a way to keep this connection, to push forward, to have a say in our own lives.
We sit like that for a while, not talking, just being. And knowing we're not alone and that we have each other’s back makes it all feel a little more bearable. Even more... possible.