Chapter 6
Chapter six
ISABELLA
"Your questions?" Mom's voice shifts—suddenly breathless, fragile, her hand fluttering to her chest like a wounded bird. "I'm dying, Bella. And you're worried about your questions?"
I crouch down, putting myself at eye level with her wheelchair. It's unsettling—the way she's looking at me feels familiar and foreign all at once. Like looking at a photograph that's been subtly altered. Same face, wrong expression.
"Because you can't honestly think I'd come all this way and not have questions.
" I hold her gaze. "On that video call, you seemed like you actually wanted to fix things.
To explain. But just now, on the dock—" I pause, letting the words land.
"You told me children are such a blessing.
Asked if I knew I might not be so lucky. "
"The medications," she says quietly. "Theos keeps adjusting them.
Some days I'm myself. Other days I say things and five minutes later I can't remember why.
" She meets my eyes. "That's not an excuse for what I said on the dock.
But it's the truth. I’ve been waiting for this moment for thirteen years. "
Behind us, Alexandros clears his throat. I'd almost forgotten we had an audience for this performance.
"We need to move," he says. "The island is secure, but we shouldn't linger in the open. There have been... rumblings on the mainland. We shouldn't take chances."
Rumblings. Such a clean word for whatever's brewing back in the world we left behind.
She reaches for my hand. Her fingers are cold, thin, the bones too prominent beneath papery skin.
"I believe I can be saved." Her grip tightens. “But I need you. You’re special. You survived what should have killed you, Bella. That has to mean something.'"
"Special," I repeat, my voice carefully flat. "Like a rare blood type? Like something you can extract?"
Her hand jerks back like I've burned her.
"That's not—" She stops, coughs. The cough sounds real, at least—wet and rattling, the kind that comes from lungs that are failing.
Blood flecks her lips again, and this time she does wipe it away, smearing red across the back of her hand.
"I didn't—the new protocol. Dr. Theos adjusted my medications yesterday and I can't seem to—" She shakes her head sharply.
"That came out wrong, Isabella. I'm sorry. "
"We should go," Alexandros says, and there's an edge to his voice now. A warning. Whether it's for her or for me, I can't tell.
Franco catches my eye from where he's standing with Manuel. A slight tilt of his head—a silent request to talk. Manuel's posture is rigid, his gaze sweeping the landscape in continuous arcs. Professional. Alert. Exactly what Antonio promised they'd be.
"Give me a minute," I call to Alexandros. "I need to speak with my security detail."
My mother's eyes narrow at the phrase. Like she'd forgotten I didn't come here alone. Like she'd assumed I'd walk into whatever this is without protection.
"Take your time," Alexandros says smoothly, already turning her wheelchair toward the path. "We'll wait at the base of the stairs." His hand settles on the small of her back—possessive, familiar—as they move away.
I watch them go, noting how naturally they move together. How he anticipates the uneven ground before she has to ask. Whatever game they're playing, they've been practicing it for years.
Once they're out of earshot, I turn to Franco and Manuel.
"Alright." I keep my voice low. "What's going on?"
Franco steps closer, barely above a murmur. "We've been monitoring what we can since we landed. Comms are spotty—we think they're being jammed or intercepted. Can't reach the boss."
My stomach drops. "At all?"
"We're working on a secure channel," Manuel says. "But until then, we're operating with limited contact."
Limited contact. Cut off from Antonio. Alone on an island with a mother who looks at me like a commodity and a Greek who looks at me like a prize.
"What about the Greeks?" I glance toward the shore, where Nikos is pacing with a phone pressed to his ear, speaking rapid Greek. Stefanos stands apart, his hand resting on what's definitely a concealed weapon, scanning the horizon. Their tension is obvious even from here.
"Nervous," Manuel says. "More nervous than they should be if this is their territory. Something's got them spooked."
"Could be the money problems," Franco adds. "Could be something else. We're keeping our eyes open."
I think of what I overheard on the boat—Stefanos and Nikos arguing about expenses, about investors asking questions. Fifty thousand this month alone. The Greeks are hemorrhaging money, and someone is sabotaging them from inside.
"We got you," Franco says, his voice firm. "Whatever happens. Antonio's orders were clear—we don't leave your side, and we get you home safe. That's the mission."
"If we get separated," I say, "how do I signal you? If I can't call, can't text—"
Franco considers this. "Something audible but not obvious. Something that wouldn't alarm guards."
I think of the ballet studio. Miss Kovalenko's three sharp whistles—the sound that meant stop everything, come to center, pay attention.
"Three whistles," I say. "Short, sharp. Like this." I demonstrate, barely above a breath.
Franco nods slowly. "I'll listen for it. If I hear that, I come running. No matter what."
"What if you can't get to me?"
"Then I make enough noise that you can get to the extraction point." His eyes are fierce. "We don't leave people behind, Isabella. That's not how we operate. Again, we’ll get you home."
Home. The word hits harder than it should. Antonio's fortress, with its stone walls and Mediterranean views. Elena's laugh echoing through the halls. The letter I've unfolded twenty-three times, still tucked against my heart.
"Okay." I wipe my palms on my jeans. "Let's see what's waiting up there."
Franco nods. "I'll be right behind you. Manuel's going to set up some of our equipment—what we have left after the carry-on restrictions."
I start up the stone stairs, each step heavier than the last. White stones line the path, perfectly smooth, perfectly spaced. Seven stones, then a gap. Seven more, another gap. Everything in sevens.
Elena would notice the pattern immediately. She'd count them out loud, delighted by the symmetry. The thought makes my chest ache.
The path winds upward through low scrub and wind-twisted trees. The villa comes into view gradually—white walls, blue shutters, the kind of Cycladic architecture that belongs on postcards. Beautiful. Serene.
Wrong.
My mother waits at the entrance, still in her wheelchair. Alexandros stands beside her. But there's someone else now—a tall figure in flowing white, standing perfectly still near the doorway. Hands clasped in front of him like he's praying. Or waiting.
Not a doctor. Doctors don't dress like that. Doctors don't stand with that kind of stillness, that kind of certainty.
When he sees me, he smiles. It's beatific. Peaceful. The smile of someone who believes they already know how this ends.
"Isabella," he says. His voice is soft, almost musical. "We've been waiting for you for such a long time."
My mother's tapping stops. Alexandros goes very still. Even the wind seems to hold its breath.
Franco’s entire body turns to stone. But the man just keeps smiling that terrible, knowing smile.
"Welcome home," he says.
Home?
This isn't home.
But I smile back anyway. Keep my spine straight, my chin lifted. First position. Performance face.
"Thank you," I say, and my voice doesn't waver. "It's been quite a journey."
Because if there's one thing being a mafia wife has taught me, it's how to walk into a trap with your eyes wide open.
And how to survive it.
The mother who greeted us with a gun, the one with the how-dare-you-ask-questions attitude? Gone.
Instead, this woman who wears her face is gripping my hand like we're in some Hallmark movie reunion, not the aftermath of thirteen years of lies and a dock confrontation that left me feeling like livestock at auction.
"I'd like to introduce you to my daughter, Dr. Theos," she says, her voice smooth as silk. Steady. Strong.
Too strong for someone who was coughing blood five minutes ago.
My pulse kicks up—that familiar flutter I've learned to monitor. Because this is the third mask in an hour. Gun-wielding paranoid. Cold assessor. Now doting mother, presenting her daughter like a debutante at a ball.
Which one is real? Maybe none of them.
Behind Dr. Theos, I notice how the room shifts when he moves.
Subtle, but there. The woman by the window sets down her book, her posture straightening.
A Calabrian man I vaguely recognize from my father's files—Ndrangheta, if I remember right—pauses mid-conversation.
Even a gauntwoman's bodyguard seems to orient toward him, like plants turning toward sun.
Or soldiers awaiting orders.
"Signora O'Brien," Dr. Theos greets the woman first. "How are you feeling today?"
"Much better, Doctor. The meditation, the herbs..." She touches a locket at her throat, her smile almost dreamy. "Since Marco passed, I didn't think I'd ever feel peace again, but—"
Stefanos makes a sound beside me. Low. Almost a growl. His whole body goes rigid at the name.
Marco. His dead lover. The one my mother allegedly got killed.
What is this place?
"This is Isabella," my mother continues, squeezing my hand. Her palm is dry now, warm—nothing like the cold, papery grip on the dock. "She's the one who will be able to save me. And so many others."
Behind me, Franco mutters something in Italian that definitely isn't a compliment.
My thoughts exactly. Because—save others?
What the hell does that mean? I'm not a doctor.
I'm not a researcher. I'm a former ballerina with a medical history that reads like a horror novel and blood that apparently holds some value I don't understand.