Chapter 6 #2
Dr. Theos extends his hand toward me. I take it automatically—years of social training—but my eyes snag on his fingernails. Caked with dirt. Dark crescents under each one, like he's been digging in soil.
Doctors are clean. Obsessively clean. That was one of the few comforts during my treatment—the sterility, the protocol, the sense that everything was controlled.
This feels wrong.
He catches my stare and laughs, easy and warm.
"Forgive my hands. I was just in the garden—it's how I manage stress.
Being moved from location to location under constant threat.
.." He shrugs, self-deprecating. "Even doctors need coping mechanisms. There's always a garden that needs tending, wherever one goes," he says. "I find them. Or they find me."
My mother nods like this makes perfect sense. Like cryptic non-answers about gardens are totally normal doctor behavior.
The flutter in my chest intensifies. I press two fingers to my wrist, counting beats. Too fast, but not dangerous. Not yet.
Alexandros swings open the villa's main door, and I'm hit with that familiar cognitive dissonance—mafia money and magazine aesthetics.
Bright, airy rooms. Modern farmhouse meets ancient Greece.
But the statues in the corners aren't reproductions.
Those are old. Museum-old. The kind of old that comes with paperwork problems and probably a few bodies buried somewhere in the provenance.
"This has been in our family for generations," Alexandros says, pride threading through his voice. "Our place to regroup. To heal."
His hand finds the small of my back as he guides me inside.
Every muscle in my body tenses.
On the dock, I watched him trace circles on my mother's wrist. Watched the intimacy between them, practiced and familiar. Wondered what she promised him. Wondered if I was part of that promise.
Now his palm is warm through my shirt, steering me like I belong to him. I shake him off.
The villa is busier than I expected. Maybe a dozen people moving through the space.
Some look sick—the pallor, the careful movements, the subtle signs I learned to recognize in hospital waiting rooms. Others look healthy.
Wealthy. The Irish woman with her designer clothes and serene smile.
The Calabrian now deep in conversation with Nikos, gesturing with his hands, mentioning "percentages" and "quarterly contributions. "
Money. Power. Sickness. Something connecting all of them.
"Other guests," Alexandros says simply when he catches me looking. "The island serves various purposes."
Various purposes. The phrase lands like a stone in still water, ripples spreading outward. Medical retreat, clearly. But also—meeting ground? Neutral territory for families who'd kill each other on the mainland? A place where old enemies can share space under the banner of... what? Healing? Hope?
Or something else entirely.
"How about we let you settle in?" Alexandros says, finally—finally—dropping his hand from my back. "Franco, I'll show you to your quarters." He gestures right, then leans close to me, voice dropping. "And don't worry. We don't do dingy prisons here. Not like some fortresses I could mention."
The dig at Antonio is obvious. I don't rise to it.
"To be fair," I say, keeping my tone light, "this entire island is a prison. How exactly am I supposed to leave if I want to?"
"You say the word and I'll make sure you're home."
Home.
The word hangs there. He says it casually, like it's obvious where home is. But his ice-blue eyes hold mine a beat too long, and I think of all the promises my mother might have made. All the deals struck while I was dancing on stages or fighting cancer or locked in Antonio's stone room.
Where does Alexandros think my home is? With him?
"Daphne," he calls, and a woman about my age hurries in from the kitchen. Brown hair, dark eyes, a smile that's just slightly too eager. "Show Isabella to her quarters. And explain the intercom system." He turns to Franco without waiting for acknowledgment. "This way."
Franco doesn't move. "I'm not staying far from Isabella." His voice is pure gravel, all protective menace. "If you can't find me a room next to hers, I'll sleep at her fucking doorstep."
Alexandros's eyes narrow, but he nods. "Fine. The rooms are smaller, but you and Manuel can have the ones in her hallway. My brothers and I will be on the opposite side."
Keeping us separated. Keeping watch. I note it without commenting.
"And my mother?" I ask. "Where does she stay?"
Mom's voice comes from behind me, soft and strange: "I stay where Dr. Theos stays."
She says it like a fact of nature. The sky is blue. Water is wet. She stays where Dr. Theos stays.
No question. No qualification. Just absolute certainty.
The flutter in my chest sharpens. I've heard that tone before. In the voices of people who've stopped questioning. Stopped thinking. My father's most loyal soldiers had it. The ones who'd walk into bullets because he told them to.
For the first time, I wonder if my mother is here by choice. Or if she's as trapped as I'm starting to feel.
Dr. Theos is watching us, cataloging every reaction with those bird-bright eyes.
When he steps closer, I have to fight the urge to step back.
There's something about his presence. Magnetic in a way that feels less like charisma and more like gravity.
Like he's the center of something, and everyone else is just caught in the pull.
"You've been through quite an ordeal, Isabella," he says, his gaze tracing the path of my visible scars—collarbone, inner arm, the faded port scar at my chest. I resist the urge to cover them. "Your survival is remarkable. The human body's capacity for healing never ceases to amaze me."
"I had good doctors," I say carefully. "Good treatment."
"Indeed." His smile doesn't waver. "Modern medicine is miraculous. But sometimes..." He pauses, lets the silence stretch. "Sometimes there's something more. Something science hasn't yet learned to measure."
My mother makes a small sound of agreement. Fervent. Almost hungry.
Something more. What the hell does that mean?
I open my mouth to ask, but he's already turning away, moving toward Stefanos and Nikos. Within seconds, they're laughing together—the Greek brothers who were tense and brooding on the dock now relaxed, almost jovial. Like someone flipped a switch.
"Isn't he wonderful?" my mother whispers beside me.
Wonderful isn't the word I'd choose. Unsettling is closer. Wrong is closer still.
But when she looks at me, something wavers. Her hand finds mine—cold, trembling. "I'm glad you're here," she whispers. Then, so quiet I almost miss it: "I'm sorry it took so long." Before I can respond, she's wheeling away, that vulnerable moment sealed behind her survival mask.
And I try my hardest to keep my face neutral as Daphne touches my elbow.
"This way," she says brightly. "I'll show you to your room."
The hallways hum with quiet activity. Through open doors, I glimpse the Russian woman's bodyguard lighting candles in what looks like a meditation room.
The Calabrian is on his phone now, mentioning "monthly contributions" and "the usual channels.
" The Irish woman passes us, heading somewhere with purpose, and she smiles at me like we're old friends. Like we're part of the same club.
What club? What is this place?
"Busy," I observe, keeping my voice casual.
"Dr. Theos runs a comprehensive program," Daphne says. "Very holistic. Mind, body, spirit—he addresses everything."
Holistic. The word sounds rehearsed. A brochure phrase.
I notice people moving at specific times, specific directions. Not random. Scheduled. Everyone knows where they're supposed to be except me.
I think of Antonio's coded warning on the phone. Maria clearing out the bad. Books everywhere. People listening. Being careful.
But what if the danger isn't someone listening from outside?
What if we've walked into something else entirely—something that looks like a medical retreat but feels like a web? What if the door's already closing behind us, and I'm only just noticing the threads?
Daphne stops at a door near the end of the hall. "Here we are." She opens it to reveal a beautiful room—white linens, blue accents, a window overlooking the sea. Peaceful. Perfect.
Too perfect.
"You're going to love it here," she says "Everyone does. Eventually."
Eventually.
The word settles into my bones like a chill.
I smile back at her, all performance, all control. "I'm sure I will."
But as she closes the door and I'm finally alone, I press my back against the wall and count my heartbeats. Too fast. Too erratic.
I pull Antonio's letter from inside my shirt, press it against my chest where the paper has grown soft from handling.
Twenty-three times I've unfolded it. Twenty-four now.
Ti amo, he wrote. Come back to me.
I refold it carefully, tuck it away.
Whatever this place is—medical retreat, mafia meeting ground, something stranger still—I'm not staying long enough to find out what "eventually" means.
Once I have answers, I'm going home.
The real one.