Chapter Seven - Isabella
The air in the club shivers with light and sound. Bass thumps through the soles of my shoes, working up through my bones until I can almost believe I’m part of the rhythm. Strobes slice the darkness, catching on the sequins of my dress and setting the fabric on fire.
Every shift, every spin, flashes silver and pale blue across my thighs. For once, I let my hair tumble loose down my back. If anyone’s looking for Isabella Bruno tonight, they won’t find her.
Clara dances beside me, eyes bright, hair flying. She leans in, laughter tumbling out over the music. “You never go out,” she shouts. “What’s gotten into you, Izzy? Some mystery man?”
I laugh, shaking my head, careful not to let the real answer slip. “Just felt like living a little. That’s allowed, right?”
She arches a brow, playful and suspicious. “This better not be about work. You promised you’d have fun.”
I take her hand, twirling her once beneath the flashing lights. “I am having fun,” I lie, and it sounds almost true in the noise.
Truth is, I’m here for a reason. My whole body’s on high alert, skin prickling whenever I pass through the golden halo of the VIP section where I know he’s sitting. Emil Sharov, watching from his high-backed booth with that unreadable expression.
It took two weeks of research, three burner phones, and one well-placed tip to learn that he spends his nights in this place. The club’s owned by men whose surnames end in -ov and -sky, all of them orbiting the Bratva sun. If Emil is the key to Enzo’s secrets, then this is where the locks are kept.
I dance because it makes me visible. It draws the stares of strangers, most meaningless, but not all. I feel Emil’s gaze even before I see it: cool, appraising, an invitation wrapped in a warning.
When I finally risk a glance over my shoulder, he’s there, shadowed and still, surrounded by men who talk with their hands and wear their guns in plain sight. He’s beautiful, dangerous, utterly out of place among the plastic smiles and cheap perfume. The contrast makes me bold.
Clara leans in, breathless. “Is that who I think it is?”
I pretend not to notice. “Just some guys from the Russian table. Don’t stare, they’ll think you’re interested.”
She giggles, nudging my ribs. “They already think I’m interested, the way you’re lighting up the room.”
The truth is, every move I make is for Emil. I spin, my dress catching the lights, my smile too bright to be real. I want him to watch me. I want him to want to come closer, to drop that icy distance and reveal what’s underneath.
Each minute he sits, not approaching but not looking away, is a kind of power. I hold it tight, let it fill the cracks left by fear.
My pulse hammers every time our eyes meet across the distance. He studies me—calculating, intent—but stays put. He doesn’t send a drink, doesn’t try to draw me in. I can feel the interest simmering beneath that mask, and it’s all the encouragement I need.
When a man tries to join me on the floor, I let him close for a moment, then step away, smiling politely but coldly. I feel the tension at the back of my neck. know Emil is watching, tracking every gesture. I wonder if he’ll intervene.
He doesn’t. The man drifts off, disappointed, and I reward myself with another glance at the VIP booth. Emil hasn’t moved. His focus is razor-sharp, more patient than any other man in this room. He’s waiting, but for what? For me to break?
Clara is glowing, lost in the blur of music and freedom. “Stay a little longer,” she begs, pulling me toward the bar. “I’ll buy the next round.”
I shake my head, feigning exhaustion. “I should go. Early morning. You stay and enjoy yourself. Please.”
She pouts, but I see her relief. Clara loves the chase more than I ever could. I hug her tight, promising to text when I get home, then slip out into the night. I keep my head high, aware of every gaze that follows me from the club’s low-lit foyer. Especially his.
Outside, the city is a shock—cold air, the scent of rain and garbage and possibility.
I pull my jacket tight, walk slowly to the curb.
I sense him even before I see the dark car parked half a block down, headlights off, engine idling.
It’s not paranoia. I counted his guards as I left, noted the turn of his head, the flicker of a signal to his men.
He knows I want to be seen, and I want him to follow.
My car is a borrowed sedan. It’s modest and forgettable, registered to the name I bought along with the apartment on the other side of town. I slip behind the wheel, hands steady, adrenaline fizzing through my veins.
When I glance in the rearview mirror, the black car is already moving, trailing behind as I pull away from the curb.
It’s a game, and I’m not sure who’s winning. The danger is real, but so is the thrill. I take the long way home, winding through city blocks, counting the moments he disappears behind a truck or falls back to blend with traffic. He’s good. Careful.
I lose sight of him twice but spot him again near the river, two cars behind, never closer, never too far.
By the time I reach my building, my heart is racing. I lock the doors, take the elevator up to my tiny rented apartment, and watch through the curtains as the black car glides past and pauses beneath the streetlamp. It lingers. Watching. Waiting.
For the first time in weeks, I feel something like power. He’s following me now. And with every step he takes, I get closer to the answers I came for. The chase isn’t over, not by a long shot.
Once I’m sure his car is gone, I’ll let myself breathe.
The black sedan idles a little longer beneath the streetlight, headlights off, shadowed windows gleaming with city haze.
I keep my face hidden behind the curtain until the engine murmurs to life, the taillights flicker, and finally, he’s swallowed by the empty street.
Even then, I wait another minute, pulse hammering in my throat. Only when I’m sure he won’t return do I let my body slump, all the tension slipping out at once.
The heels are the first thing to go—kicked carelessly across the narrow rug, toes still tingling from hours on the dance floor.
I look around the small, impersonal apartment: the suitcase shoved under the bed, the raincoat hanging by the door, the fake diploma on the desk with “Isabella Rossi” written in block letters.
None of it feels real. I grab my keys again, tug on flat shoes, and check my reflection—hair mussed, lips smudged, adrenaline making my eyes look wilder than I want to admit.
Time to go. If anyone realizes I’m missing from the estate, all of tonight’s careful risk will be for nothing. I double-check the door is locked behind me, scanning the street one more time for that dark car.
Nothing but the city’s restless quiet, a passing siren, a flicker of headlights that don’t slow. I melt into the night, moving fast, head down, the city swallowing my secrets as it always has.
By the time I reach the Bruno estate, my nerves are scraped raw. The cab lets me off a block away so I can slip through the side gate, heart stuttering as I duck past the garage, keeping to the shadows cast by old sycamores.
The house is mostly dark, just the gold wash of a hallway lamp glimmering through the heavy curtains. I press a hand to the old stone, grounding myself before slipping the key into the back door and letting myself in.
Inside, it smells the same as always: perfume and lemon oil, something older and heavier beneath it. The hush is complete except for the faint, ghostly tick of the grandfather clock in the foyer.
I move quickly, footsteps soft on the runner, already rehearsing excuses: a book left at Clara’s, a late-night study group, a migraine that sent me to bed early. Maybe I’ll get lucky, maybe no one will notice—
Then I see him.
My uncle stands in the center of the hall, arms folded across his chest, suit immaculate despite the hour.
The scent of his cigars is thick in the air, curling around him like another layer of armor.
His expression is hard, carved out of something old and unyielding.
The look in his eyes makes me feel small, like a child again, caught stealing cookies, except what I’ve stolen now is so much more dangerous.
“Where were you?” Vittorio’s voice is soft, almost gentle, but there’s steel threaded through it. The kind of softness that promises nothing good.
I freeze. The lies I practiced on the way home scatter like leaves. “Clara wanted to go dancing,” I manage, forcing my voice steady. “We were out with friends, that’s all.”
He says nothing for a moment, only studies me. His gaze is a searchlight, sweeping over every detail—the smudged lipstick, the faint shimmer of sweat at my temple, the hem of my dress poking from under my coat. I lower my eyes, fists curling at my sides, jaw set.
Vittorio’s shoes click against the marble as he steps closer. “Isabella, do you think I’m a fool?” His words are cold now, the patience slipping. “I’ve told you this city is not safe for you at night. You know better than to wander off without telling anyone.”
My heart beats too fast. I want to protest, to throw his own secrets in his face: the locked doors, the late-night meetings, the whispers about the Sharovs.
Instead, I swallow it all, letting the silence stretch between us. The urge to defend myself wars with the prickling edge of fear that always creeps in when he’s angry.
He sighs, rubbing his temple as if my carelessness is a burden only he can bear. “Next time you want to go out, you tell me. One of the drivers will take you, wait for you. You will not sneak out. Am I clear?”
“Yes, Uncle.” I force myself to meet his eyes. There’s worry in them, but it’s the kind that tightens into suspicion, into control. For a moment, something flashes between us—an understanding that neither of us will say aloud.
He’s not just protecting me. He’s protecting the family. The business. The secrets that have shaped my life and, now, threaten to destroy it.
“Go to bed, Isabella,” he says at last, voice flat. “We’ll talk in the morning.”
I nod, edging past him, feeling his gaze burn into my back as I head for the stairs.
Every step feels heavy, the walls closing in.
I wonder if he knows where I really was tonight.
If he has men following me, watching me, reporting back.
For all my careful planning, perhaps I’m not as invisible as I thought.
Upstairs, in the safety of my bedroom, I peel off the dress and toss it onto the chair, shoving the shoes deep into the back of my closet.
My hands shake as I scrub away the last traces of club perfume, as if I can erase what happened, what I started.
The thrill of the chase is gone now, replaced by a cold weight in my stomach.
I sit on the edge of my bed, staring out at the gardens, the city lights glittering beyond the walls. Tonight, for a few hours, I felt powerful, in control. Standing before my uncle—caught, small, outmatched—I realize just how quickly that power can slip away.
The game I’ve entered is bigger than me, its rules written long before I was born. I can only hope I’m clever enough to survive it.
Sleep is a distant hope. I pace my room, nerves raw, replaying every moment of the night—Emil’s steady gaze from across the club, the cold bite of Vittorio’s suspicion.
My phone vibrates with a message from Clara, just a string of hearts and get home safe?
I answer with a quick lie, thumbs trembling: Home, safe, all good. See you tomorrow.
I peel back the curtain and peer down at the empty drive, half expecting to see a shadow moving between the hedges, Emil’s car returned, Vittorio’s men lurking. But all I find is darkness and my own reflection, drawn and wary.
Sliding into bed, I tell myself I’m still in control. That I’m not just a pawn between powerful men, but someone with her own agenda, her own secrets.
Yet as I close my eyes, heart still racing, I can’t shake the sense that every move I make is being watched, every lie already guessed. The hunt has only just begun, and I’m already tangled in its web.