Chapter 23 ANTONIO
Chapter twenty-three
ANTONIO
Ifind Franco in the east wing, propped against the wall, Connor's medic working on his wounds.
"Boss." His voice is weak but steady. "Took you long enough."
"You look like shit."
"Feel like it too." He tries to laugh, winces instead. "But I'm still breathing. Nine lives, remember? Like a cat."
"Like a cat." I grip his good shoulder. "Elena's going to want a full report. She'll count your lives for you."
"Tell her I'm down to about six." He coughs. "Maybe five."
"I'll tell her you're a hero."
"I'm a stubborn bastard who got shot." But there's relief in his eyes. "Isabella?"
"Safe. With Connor's people."
"Her mother?"
I shake my head.
Franco closes his eyes. "She got herself out, you know.
Before you even breached the main hall." He opens his eyes again.
"Broke Henrik's grip. Ran. Used a key her mother gave her to get through the service corridor.
" A weak laugh that turns into a cough. "We heard a whistle from outside—three notes—and then your men came through like hellfire. She signaled her own rescue, boss."
I already knew. I was there when her whistle cut through the darkness, when we pivoted toward the sound of her. But hearing Franco say it makes something loosen in my chest.
"You married well," he adds.
"I know."
The medic finishes bandaging, steps back. "He needs a hospital. Bullet's still in the shoulder. I can't get it out here. And his shoulder wound reopened during the chaos.”
"We've got a boat waiting." I help Franco to his feet, supporting his weight. "Can you walk?"
"Can crawl if I have to."
We make our way out of the compound, past bodies and believers and the wreckage of Henrik's plans. The Greek authorities are already arriving—someone called it in. Probably Alexandros, trying to save himself.
Isabella's waiting at the dock, my jacket draped over her ruined white dress. Her mother's blood on her hands.
I think about what Franco said. She signaled her own rescue. I came to save her, and she was already saving herself. Already out the door, already calling to us through the dark.
I leave Franco with Connor and go to her.
"Hey."
"Hey." Her voice is distant.
"We need to go. Before the police complicate things."
She nods but doesn't move. Just stands there, staring at the compound, at the place where her mother died.
"No one's all bad." I take her hand. "Or all good."
"She asked me to forgive her. Right before—" Her voice breaks. "I couldn't. I told her I might not ever forgive her."
"You told her the truth."
"I told her I loved her anyway." She looks at me, eyes bright with tears she won't let fall. "Is that enough?"
I don't have an answer. Don't know if there is one.
"You got yourself out," I say instead. "Franco told me. The key, the corridor, the whistle."
"I just ran."
"You survived. You signaled. You brought us right to you." I pull her close. "I was coming to rescue you, Bella. But you didn't wait to be rescued."
She's quiet for a moment. Then, so soft I almost miss it: "My mother told me to make noise so you could find me. I didn't know if anyone was listening."
"I was listening. I'll always be listening."
She leans into me, and I feel some of the tension leave her body.
"Let's go home," I say. "Elena's waiting."
Isabella nods. Lets me lead her to the boat.
As we pull away from the island, she leans against my shoulder, exhausted and grieving and alive.
That's enough for now. Everything else can wait.
***The aftermath is chaos dressed in uniforms.
Greek police swarm the compound within the hour—real cops, not Dimitri's undercover operation.
The kind who write reports and demand statements and make everything inconveniently official.
Someone must have called it in. Maybe the believers, finally realizing their miracle was a crime scene.
Maybe Alexandros, cutting a deal before the bodies cooled.
I keep Isabella close as officers move through the ceremony room, photographing evidence, interviewing witnesses. She hasn't spoken since I pulled her away from her mother's body. Just watches everything with those hollow eyes, the white dress stained with things I don't want to name.
"We need to get her out of here," I tell Connor quietly.
"Working on it." He's been on the phone for twenty minutes, calling in favors, threatening lawyers, doing whatever the Irish do when they need police to look the other way. "Give me ten more minutes."
Franco appears at my side, Manuel behind him. Both look like hell—bruised, exhausted, but alive. Henrik's security didn't treat them gently during their captivity.
"Boss." Franco's voice is rough. "She okay?"
"She will be."
He nods, not pushing. He saw what Isabella did in that ceremony room—kneed Henrik, broke his grip, fought through the drugs to save herself. He knows she's stronger than she looks.
We all know that now.
Across the compound, a coroner is loading Henrik onto a stretcher.
A senior officer approaches, notebook in hand. "Inspector Andreou. I need to take your statement."
"My wife needs medical attention first."
"The paramedics can examine her here—"
"She needs to go home." I don't raise my voice. Don't need to. "She's been drugged, held against her will, and watched her mother die. Whatever questions you have can wait."
Andreou looks between me and Connor, calculating. Two foreign nationals with obvious resources and obvious connections. The kind of men who make paperwork complicated.
"Forty-eight hours," he says finally. "I'll need full statements from both of you within forty-eight hours, or I issue warrants."
"You'll have them." Connor pockets his phone. "My lawyers will be in touch."
Good enough.
They're bringing out Isabella's mother now—a black body bag on a stretcher, anonymous and final. Isabella watches it pass, her face unreadable.
"Should I feel something?" she asks, so quiet I almost miss it. "She's my mother. She's dead. Shouldn't I feel... more?"
"You feel what you feel. There's no should."
"I feel relieved." The word comes out like a confession. "And that makes me feel guilty. And that makes me angry because she doesn't deserve my guilt. She sold me to a monster and died still believing she was the victim."
I pull her closer, letting her lean into me. There's nothing I can say that will make this easier. Her mother was a terrible person who did terrible things, and Isabella loved her anyway because that's what daughters do. That kind of wound doesn't heal with words.
"Let's go home," I say instead.
The compound's main entrance is chaos—police vehicles, ambulances, the believers being herded into groups for questioning. I steer Isabella toward the service path, the one we used to get in. Quieter. Fewer eyes.
Stefanos is sitting on a low wall near the north door, head in his hands. Two officers stand nearby, but they're not cuffing him—not yet. He looks up as we pass.
"Marco was real," he says. His voice is wrecked. "He was a real doctor. He was trying to help people. And they killed him for it."
Isabella stops. I feel her hesitate, feel the war between wanting to leave and wanting to offer something.
"I know," she says finally. "I'm sorry."
"You told the truth in there. About choosing. About not being property." Stefanos's red-rimmed eyes meet hers. "Marco would have liked you."
"Take care of yourself, Stefanos."
He nods, then looks at me. "Take care of her. She deserves better than what any of us gave her."
I don't answer. We both know I will.
The path down to the beach is slick with rain runoff, but the storm has fully passed. Sunshine breaks through the clouds, almost offensive in its cheerfulness. The air smells clean—salt and wild herbs and something like hope.
Our boat is where we left it, Luca keeping watch with two of Connor's men. He straightens when he sees us.
"Boss. Everything secure?"
"Secure enough. We're leaving."
I help Isabella aboard, noting how she moves—careful, exhausted, favoring her left arm where Henrik's grip left bruises. The drugs are wearing off, but they've left her hollowed out, running on nothing but will.
"There's a cabin below," I tell her. "You should rest."
"I don't know if I can sleep."
"Then just lie down. Close your eyes. I'll be right here."
She lets me guide her below deck, to the small cabin with its narrow bed. She sinks onto the mattress still wearing that ruined white dress, and something about the image—my wife in her bloody wedding gown, finally safe—makes my chest ache.
"Antonio." Her voice is barely a whisper.
"I'm here."
"You came for me."
"I'll always come for you." I sit beside her, take her hand. Her fingers are cold, trembling slightly. "That's not a promise. It's just fact."
"I know." Her eyes close. "I knew you would. Even when Henrik said the storm would stop you. Even when everything looked impossible. I knew."
"How?"
"Because you're you." A ghost of a smile. "My Beast. You'd burn down the world before you let someone take what's yours."
"You're not a possession, Bella. You told Henrik that yourself."
"No." She opens her eyes, and there's something fierce in them despite the exhaustion. "But I'm yours anyway. By choice. That's different."
I lean down, press my forehead to hers. Breathe her in—sweat and fear and incense and underneath it all, still her. Still my Bella.
"Sleep," I murmur. "I'll watch."
"You always do."
Her breathing evens out within minutes. The drugs, the adrenaline crash, the grief—it all catches up at once, pulling her under. I sit beside her, her hand in mine, and watch her sleep.
The boat's engine rumbles to life. We're pulling away from the island, leaving it behind with all its lies and blood and broken believers.
Connor appears in the doorway, keeping his voice low. "Three hours to the mainland. My people will have a car waiting."
"Good."
"Naomi's already on a flight. She'll meet you at the fortress tomorrow."
"Isabella will want to see her."
"Naomi would burn down airports to get there faster if she could." Connor leans against the doorframe, studying me. "She did well, your wife. Held it together when most people would have shattered."
"She's stronger than anyone gives her credit for."
"Including you, once."
I don't argue. He's right. Three months ago, I thought Isabella was a spoiled princess who'd gotten my mother killed.
I locked her in a room and called it justice.
I couldn't see past my own rage to the woman underneath—the survivor, the fighter, the one who'd endure anything and come out the other side still standing.
I see her now.
"Henrik’s men will make bail," Connor says. "Within weeks, probably. His lawyers are already circling."
"I know."
"Want me to handle it? I've got people who specialize in problems that need to disappear."
I consider it.
"Not yet," I say. "Let's see what the courts do."
Connor nods, unsurprised. "And if the courts fail?"
"Then we revisit the conversation."
He accepts that, pushing off the doorframe. "Get some rest yourself. You look like death."
"I'll rest when we're home."
"Stubborn bastard."
"Takes one to know one."
He grins, disappearing back up to the deck. I hear him talking to Luca, to the captain, coordinating the details that don't need my attention.
Isabella shifts in her sleep, murmuring something. Her hand tightens on mine.
I look at her—really look. The bruises forming on her arm. The dark circles under her eyes. The white dress that was supposed to bind her to a monster, now just ruined silk.
She's been through hell. We both have. And there's more coming—Luciano still out there with his secrets and leverage, and the fallout from tonight that will ripple through both our families for months.
But right now, in this moment, she's safe. She's here. She's mine—by choice, like she said. Not because I took her. Because she stayed.
The island disappears behind us, swallowed by distance and sea spray. Good riddance. Let it rot with all its false prophets and desperate believers.
We're going home.
To Elena, who's been counting the hours until her Bella-ballina comes back. To the fortress that's become something more than a prison. To the life we're building together, one day at a time, on the wreckage of what our parents tried to make us.
Isabella's breathing is steady now, deep and even. Peaceful, finally.
I press a kiss to her hair and settle in to keep watch.
Three hours to the mainland. Then home.
We'll figure out the rest tomorrow.