Chapter Ten - Emil
Isabella slips away from the table, her absence leaving the air heavy and taut.
I settle back, letting the dim glow of the restaurant wrap around me, the last of my whiskey swirling gold in the bottom of the glass. My eyes roam the room, cataloging faces, exits, the way the staff move.
Most nights, people either pretend not to see me or they look too long—curious, hungry, nervous. Tonight is no different. Women’s eyes flick my way, linger, dart off again. A pair of men in tailored suits lean in, voices dropping, as if my presence alone warrants caution.
Someone doesn’t bother with caution. He approaches with all the subtlety of a threat, sharp Italian cologne trailing behind him.
The kind of man who’s never waited for an invitation in his life.
I recognize him before he even sits; a face from old files, surveillance shots, the kind of legacy that festers in rival empires.
“Didn’t think the Russians were welcome here,” Matteo Bruno sneers, sliding into Isabella’s empty seat as if he owns the world. He doesn’t bother to introduce himself. His smirk is wide, eyes gleaming with venom and pride.
I set my glass down, jaw tightening. The Brunos. Of all people, it had to be them tonight.
I give him nothing at first, just the flat, silent look that’s made stronger men lose their nerve. Matteo only leans in, elbows on the table, confidence oozing from every gesture.
“Heard you’ve taken an interest in the city’s art scene. Not really your style, is it?” His words drip with mockery, every syllable a veiled threat.
“New York’s full of surprises,” I reply, voice smooth as glass. “You never know who you’ll find sitting across the table.”
He laughs, but it’s sharp and humorless. “Guess even the Bratva need a side hustle these days. You laundering money through paintings now, or just collecting them for the décor?”
My lips twitch, but the smile is cold. “Careful. It’s easy to choke on your father’s shadow if you’re not paying attention.”
My words land with practiced precision, each syllable edged in ice. I hold his gaze, let the silence stretch until it snaps.
Matteo’s smirk falters for a heartbeat. His jaw flexes, and for a moment, the mask slips and I see a flash of something raw and mean flickers in his eyes. He wants me to rise, to give him a reason to start a war in a place full of witnesses.
I’m not here for his games. Not tonight.
He regains his composure, leaning back with studied indifference. “We all have to adapt, don’t we? City’s changing. New money, new rules. Just don’t get too comfortable, Sharov. Old families still remember how to handle snakes.”
I lean forward, lowering my voice so only he can hear. “The city belongs to whoever has the stomach to hold it. Make sure you’re ready, when your turn comes.”
We hold each other’s eyes, two predators circling.
The tension is razor-thin; it hums in my veins, every muscle wired tight, senses sharpened by the possibility of violence.
Matteo is cocky, sure of his place in the world, but he’s young.
I can see the calculation in his eyes, the way he measures my every word for weakness.
A long moment passes. Around us, the restaurant goes on: glasses clinking, laughter bubbling, oblivious to the empire balancing on the edge of a knife at this small, elegant table.
Matteo stands abruptly, straightening his jacket with a flick of his wrist. The smirk is back, but it’s forced now, more brittle than before. “Enjoy your evening, Sharov. I’ll be seeing you around.”
He doesn’t wait for a reply, disappearing into the crowd with the same arrogance he arrived with. I watch him go, resisting the urge to crack my knuckles or reach for the gun at my side. There’s nothing more dangerous than a prince desperate to prove himself.
My reflection swims in the black surface of my drink, fractured and unfamiliar. I let out a slow breath, rolling my shoulders to release the tension. I remind myself of my purpose: why I’m here, what I’m after.
Matteo’s warning is nothing new, but it’s a complication I don’t need. If the Brunos are watching, then Isabella’s secret is even bigger than I thought.
Movement at the edge of my vision draws my attention.
Isabella is returning, steps light, face composed, though I can sense the question in her eyes.
She hesitates just before reaching the table, scanning my expression, searching for clues.
I offer her a calm, careful smile, every muscle still humming with adrenaline.
The game has changed, and she’s not the only one risking everything tonight.
Moments later, Isabella settles into her seat with careful grace, chin lifted, but her eyes flick over my face as if searching for fresh cracks.
The light in here turns her skin gold, lips still painted the same defiant red I saw that morning.
She glances toward the empty seat across from me, then back, her voice casual but her tone too deliberate.
“Something happened?” she asks, her fingers tracing idle circles on the base of her wineglass as she sits.
I meet her gaze, steady and unreadable. She’s good at hiding nerves, but not as good as she thinks. I sense the edges of fear, tension tightening her shoulders, something not quite right in the set of her jaw.
“Nothing worth mentioning,” I say quietly, refusing to feed her worry. No need to turn Matteo’s performance into anything more than it was—a warning, a flare of old blood in a room full of new money.
She smiles, but the corners of her mouth quiver. I let the silence sit for a moment, testing its weight.
The waiter hovers, refilling our glasses, then disappears, leaving us in our private cocoon. The music is softer now, the clatter of cutlery distant and civilized, as if the city itself has leaned in to listen.
“So,” I say, voice smooth, “how does someone like you end up guiding lost men through galleries and museums?”
She laughs, the sound light but edged. “I like things that last. Things with stories. Maybe I just wanted to be near beauty.”
Her eyes hold mine, but there’s something else behind the words. a private history she’ll never share. I’m sure of it now.
I lean in, dropping my voice. “I have a few pieces you might like. Old things. Difficult to place.” I let the words linger, just a hint of invitation in my tone. “You should see them sometime. Come to my estate for dinner. I promise you won’t be bored.”
She hesitates. I can see her weighing every possibility, measuring risk against curiosity, safety against the answers she wants. “Maybe,” she says after a beat, trying for playful but not quite landing it. “I’d like that.”
We finish the meal in a careful dance; her holding tight to her role, me chipping at its edges, each of us marking the other’s boundaries by how far we lean in, how quickly we retreat.
When the bill comes, I sign without a word, watching her from beneath my lashes. The streets outside are painted with rain, lights smeared and doubled in every puddle.
I drive her back to the address she gives. Her so-called apartment. The building is small and unassuming, the front access lined with little potted plants.
She’s quiet in the passenger seat, hands folded in her lap, the city gliding past outside, each block another secret kept in motion. She thanks me as we pull up, the polite smile back in place. I watch her climb the steps, let myself wonder if she’ll look back, if she’ll run.
She doesn’t. She disappears behind the glass, and I’m left alone in the hum of the car, fingers tight on the wheel, her scent lingering in the air.
***
Later, my office is thick with cigarette smoke and midnight quiet.
The city is a dark pulse outside my window, the skyline slashed with neon and headlights.
I sit at my desk, the glass of vodka untouched at my elbow, replaying every moment of the night: Isabella’s nervous smile, Matteo’s snarling bravado, the careful way she’d measured every answer.
She didn’t just look scared. She looked… guilty.
I’ve seen fear before, a thousand kinds of it. Hers didn’t fit. It was sharper, tinged with something closer to anticipation. Something that said she wasn’t just running from danger—she was running toward something too.
The door creaks. Lukyan steps in, the scent of aftershave and coffee preceding him. He stands in the doorway, one brow cocked in mock concern.
“You’re distracted,” he says, voice teasing but with an edge. “Did she turn you down?”
I ignore the bait, taking another slow drag from my cigarette. “She’s not like the others.”
He laughs, slumping into the chair across from me. “None of them are, until they are.” His eyes sharpen. “You want me to run her name?”
“I already did.” I stub out the cigarette, pulling my phone from my pocket. “I want you to keep an ear out. If anyone mentions the surname Rossi—or anything that doesn’t add up—let me know.”
He studies me for a moment, then shrugs, accepting the unspoken order. “You’re the one who said women are trouble, Brother. Don’t let this one bite you in the ass.”
He leaves me with the city and my doubts.
I make a quiet call to my tech man, Roman, who never sleeps and knows every digital corner of New York. “Isabella Rossi,” I say. “Gallery work, Manhattan. I want everything. Now.”
The hours tick by, the city growing stiller as I wait. I pour myself another drink, ignore it, and stare at my reflection in the window.
I can’t get her out of my head. Her face, her laugh, the way her composure slipped for a moment when she came back to the table.
The tension—it wasn’t the simple panic of being seen with a Bratva man.
It was the deeper, old-bone kind of guilt.
She’s hiding something, and whatever it is, it runs deep.
***
Roman’s message pings near three in the morning. I open the file expecting the usual: school, family, tax records, lovers, debts.
Instead, there’s nothing. A birth certificate, a degree, an address—each one too clean, too recent, too perfect. The earliest record is three years old. No childhood photos, no high school, no family. Just a blank page where a life should be.
I read the summary again: No family, no past. She just appeared three years ago.
I sit back, letting the silence gather, a slow smirk curving my mouth. Nobody just appears out of nowhere. Not in my city.
I close my eyes, letting her name echo in my head, rolling it over and over. Isabella Rossi—gallery girl, poised liar, riddle wrapped in silk. Whatever she’s running from, she’s made the mistake of drawing my attention.
I spend the early hours drifting between memories of Isabella’s face and the lines of Roman’s blank report. The city hums in the far distance: horns, sirens, the restless pulse of a place that never gives up its secrets easily.
My mind spins with possibilities: undercover cop, rival’s spy, someone fleeing a past as dark as my own. The way she moved, the way she lied with a smile that’s too polished, too careful. Whatever story she’s telling, it isn’t the truth.
I get up, pace the length of the office, smoke curling around my fists. Every instinct says walk away. Every instinct also knows a riddle is a challenge. And she’s the most interesting puzzle I’ve seen in years.
As dawn threatens the horizon, I dial Roman again. “Keep watching her,” I say, voice gravelly with fatigue. “I want to know everywhere she goes. Who she meets. If you find a real name, call me, no matter the hour.”
Hanging up, I stare at the city beyond the glass. Isabella Rossi. Whoever she is, whatever she’s hiding, she won’t stay invisible for long. Not with me watching.