Chapter Thirteen - Isabella
The ballroom is a blur of gold and white, laughter and violin, but all I can hear is the rush of my own pulse.
Each step I take through the crowd feels like moving upstream, past pressed suits and sparkling jewels, past the swirl of perfumed air and polite conversation.
I keep my head down, weaving between clusters of guests, searching for an exit before Emil can catch me. The urge to run wars with the need to look composed; every instinct tells me he’s somewhere behind me, eyes burning a path across my shoulders.
The air feels thick, charged, heavy, like the city before a storm. I can’t breathe, can’t focus. Matteo’s warning echoes in my ears, his grip still warm on my arm, but it’s not Matteo I fear right now. It’s Emil. He’s always at the edge of my vision, tall and silent, a shadow carved from stone.
I try to spot my uncle in the crowd. Vittorio, king of the evening, is surrounded by admirers and sycophants. If I can just get to him, maybe I’ll have a shield.
The crush of bodies keeps me penned in, and I don’t have time to play the dutiful niece. I need to get out, find air, think. I edge toward the terrace doors, hoping no one notices, praying Matteo is distracted by his friends.
I can feel Emil watching. Even when I can’t see him, his gaze is a wire wound tight around my ribs. My throat is dry. I move faster, skirting the tables, hands curled into fists around my clutch. Just a few more steps, I tell myself. Just make it to the door—
Before I reach it, a strong hand closes around my wrist.
I freeze, panic flooding my veins, but the grip isn’t cruel.
It’s firm, possessive, a message I understand all too well: you don’t leave unless I let you.
Emil stands behind me, close enough that his breath stirs the hair at the nape of my neck.
For a moment, neither of us says anything.
The world tilts, sound receding, and I’m left with nothing but the heat of his hand and the cold in his voice.
“Running away so soon?” he murmurs, his tone like a knife in silk.
I twist, searching his face. There’s no anger there, not in the way I expected. His eyes are dark, too calm, filled with something ancient and merciless. Not fury but something quieter, more lethal. My heart drops.
“I—I just needed some air,” I stammer, the lie flimsy even to my own ears.
His fingers tighten fractionally, pulling me a half step closer until our bodies nearly touch. The noise of the ballroom fades, the only sound now the shallow drag of my breath and the steady, measured exhale from his chest.
“You’re good at that,” he says, voice low. “Making people believe what you want them to.”
His eyes search mine, and I can see the calculation, the way he’s weighing every word, every twitch of my lips. I try to pull my wrist free, but he holds me fast, not hurting, just refusing to let me go.
He leans in, so close our foreheads nearly brush. “You wear your lies well, Isabella Bruno,” he whispers, the syllables deliberate, meant for me alone. “Lies always demand a price.”
His grasp is rough and warm, anchoring me in place as the party whirls by in a blur of noise and lights.
The rest of the world drops away, and suddenly it’s only the two of us in the golden hush between breaths.
Emil’s grip tightens. It’s not bruising, not cruel, but absolute.
A silent reminder that, tonight, I am not as invisible as I thought.
He pulls me closer, the space between us vanishing in a heartbeat. My chest grazes his jacket. His other hand rises, fingers skimming the side of my face, thumb barely brushing the corner of my mouth. The room spins.
All I can hear is the violin music, laughter, the clink of glasses all melt into a hush that exists only for us.
He dips his head, his breath feathering across my cheek, his lips brushing so close to my ear I shiver.
“You should be more careful, Bella,” he murmurs, voice velvet and threat. “The world is smaller than you think.” I can feel the smile against my skin. It’s a dark, secret thing.
My heart pounds, every instinct telling me to pull away.
I can’t move. I can barely think. He’s everywhere at once: his scent, his heat, the rough drag of his palm on my bare arm.
I catch my own breath, trying to summon a lie or some shred of bravado, but the words dissolve on my tongue.
I know he could expose me right here, shatter the careful mask I’ve built.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he lets the tension stretch—his mouth just at the edge of mine, a promise and a warning.
For a wild moment, I think he’ll kiss me. The ballroom, the danger, the years of rivalry—none of it matters. There’s only this dizzy closeness, his eyes searching mine for answers I can’t give.
Then he smiles: a flash of teeth, something dark and triumphant. He pulls away, the absence of his touch like a wound. He walks off, disappearing into the crush of dancers and politicians, leaving me trembling.
The crowd closes around me, voices rising again, and I can still feel him: the imprint of his hand on my wrist, the ghost of his lips by my ear. Like a mark I can’t erase.
I stand rooted, breath coming too quick, unable to calm the riot in my chest. I thought I knew what I was doing. Thought I could play this game and win.
Now I wonder if I’ve underestimated the man I’m trying to destroy. He isn’t just a monster in my family’s bedtime stories. He’s real, and clever, and more dangerous than I ever imagined.
The crowd blurs as I stumble to the side, searching for a wall to steady myself.
I try to hide my shaking hands in my skirt, pressing my palm against the spot where Emil touched me, desperate to chase away the heat he left behind.
It’s no use. I feel branded, claimed, even if only for a moment. The realization terrifies me.
Before I can regain my composure, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.
“Isabella.” Uncle Vittorio appears at my side, face drawn and thunderous. I jolt, guilt spiking through me so sharply I almost gasp. Did he see? Was he watching?
He glances at me, and his gaze softens just a touch. Enough to tell me that whatever he saw, it wasn’t everything.
“We’re leaving. Now.” His voice is cold, clipped. “No reason to stay once that Sharov scumbag arrived.”
My throat is too tight for words. I nod, following as he steers me toward the exit, hand heavy at the small of my back.
Every muscle in his body radiates anger.
There’s something new, something wounded and furious beneath his usual pride.
The hatred he feels for Emil—and all the Sharovs—crackles off him, nearly choking in its intensity.
As we wind through the party, I risk a quiet question, voice barely above a whisper. “Uncle… is it true? About the Sharovs and Enzo?”
I can hardly get the words out, dread and hope twisting together in my chest. Part of me wants him to say no, to tell me it’s all a misunderstanding, a lie crafted for our enemies’ benefit.
Vittorio’s jaw clenches, and for a moment, I see not the powerful head of the Bruno family, but a grieving father figure, broken and lost. He doesn’t answer at first. We reach the waiting car, and he stands for a long moment in the cold night, back to me, shoulders hunched.
Then, softly—so soft I almost miss it—he says, “Yes. They were behind his death.” The admission is sharp as a knife, final as a gravestone.
I feel my heart collapse in on itself. The confirmation leaves me breathless, even though I thought I was prepared for it. I stare at the ground, forcing myself to swallow the pain, the old, raw ache in my chest flaring anew. I want to scream, to cry, to demand the truth be undone.
Vittorio glances at me, his eyes shining with grief he’ll never let the world see. “He was too trusting, Isabella. He thought he could outsmart them. He paid the price.”
He opens the car door, waiting for me to get in. My legs move without my permission, numb and wooden. I slide into the back seat, folding my hands in my lap, knuckles white against the dark silk of my dress.
The city rushes past in a blur outside the window, lights smearing into ribbons of color. I try to focus on the anger, on the righteous fury that should carry me through this moment. Emil Sharov: enemy, liar, murderer. I repeat it over and over in my mind, trying to make it real.
My thoughts keep drifting to the terrace, to his mouth at my ear, the warmth of his hand.
What’s wrong with me? I should hate him. I do hate him.
Even now, part of me aches for what could never be—for the spark of something fierce and alive that I feel only with him. The realization makes me sick with shame. Emil is the reason my brother is gone.
He’s also the only man who’s ever made me feel anything real.
I close my eyes, letting the ache wash over me. I tell myself that next time, I’ll be ready. Next time, I’ll make him pay.
***
The hum of the engine fills the space between us.
Uncle Vittorio’s shoulders are rigid, hands clenched white around his cane.
I stare straight ahead, eyes fixed on the dark city sliding past the window, my mind spiraling around his admission: Yes, they were behind his death. The words are a knife I keep turning in my own chest.
After a long minute, Vittorio finally speaks. His voice is low, rough around the edges. “You know, your brother always thought he was smarter than the Russians. He believed he could play both sides.”
I force myself to look at him, though my throat feels too tight for words. “Did he… did he tell you anything before—?” The rest sticks, but I push through. “Before he died?”
He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He thought he could trust one of them. That was his mistake.” His eyes meet mine, grief burning through the anger. “You cannot trust a Sharov. Not now. Not ever.”
I swallow, pressing my hands together in my lap to hide their shaking. “But…” I hesitate, searching for something that makes sense. “If you knew, why didn’t you do something? Why didn’t you?”
Vittorio’s mouth tightens. “We tried, Isabella. There are rules in this world. Wars cost lives. Sometimes you have to wait for the right moment.” His voice cracks on the last word, and I see how tired he is, how much Enzo’s death broke him.
The streetlights paint harsh shadows over his face as we drive. He looks older than I remember, haunted.
“I just… I wish I’d been able to say goodbye,” I whisper, voice shaking.
Vittorio is quiet for a moment, then lays his hand over mine, surprisingly gentle. “Enzo loved you. He never wanted you in the middle of this. I don’t want you in it either.” His grip tightens. “Promise me you’ll stay away from the Sharovs. Especially Emil. He’s dangerous.”
A bitter laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”
He turns, searching my face, and for a second I wonder if he saw what happened tonight. if he saw Emil’s hand on my wrist, the way I melted and burned and froze all at once.
He just shakes his head, jaw clenched. “You’re all I have left, Isabella. Don’t make me lose you too.”
I nod, blinking back tears. “I promise,” I say, knowing it’s a lie, but needing to give him something, One small mercy, even if it’s hollow.
The rest of the ride is silent. I watch the lights slide past, each one a heartbeat, each one a reminder that I can’t run from this war, or from the storm Emil Sharov has set loose inside me.
When we reach the estate, Vittorio squeezes my hand once more before I slip out into the cold. “Good night, cara mia. Rest while you can.”
Upstairs, I close my door and let the tears fall, torn between grief, fury, and the dangerous ache of wanting the man I should hate most in the world.