Chapter Fifteen - Isabella
The car is silent, the kind of silence that fills your lungs and sits heavy on your tongue. I sit next to my uncle, hands folded neatly in my lap, staring at the city lights passing by.
Vittorio looks older tonight, lines carved deep around his mouth, eyes fixed on the window as if he could glare the world into submission.
A nervous energy thrums in the car, sharp enough that I finally break the quiet. “You seem tense. Is everything all right?”
He glances at me, his gaze sharp and searching. I have the sudden sense he’s looking for a crack—some clue I’ve done something wrong. The moment stretches. Then he shakes his head, smoothing his features into something more fatherly, but the tension doesn’t leave his jaw.
“Nothing, Isabella. There are… rumors. Baseless, of course. About our family. About you.” His tone is dismissive, but the way he grips his cane tells me it’s not so simple.
I nod, staring out the window. The knowledge sits like a stone in my gut. There’s no need to ask what kind of rumors.
Emil Sharov’s name might as well be written on the fogged glass. The thought makes my chest ache and my fists clench. If he is truly behind Enzo’s death, then I want blood. The thought surprises me with its clarity and how easily it comes. If I see him again, I might not be able to stop myself.
We arrive at the Pedro house, a sprawling mansion dripping with the kind of wealth meant to impress old money.
The evening begins in a blur of handshakes and rehearsed greetings.
I’m passed from cousin to aunt to well-heeled family friend, each one offering a compliment on my dress or my hair.
My lips move automatically, smiling, nodding, agreeing, never really present.
My mind drifts, looping back to the last time I saw Emil, to the chill of his warning, to the bruising certainty in his grip.
Vittorio’s voice pulls me back to the room. “Isabella, you remember Shawn Pedro’s son, Carlos?” He gestures to a young man standing by the fireplace. He’s tall, polite, handsome in the bland way rich boys often are. His suit is immaculate, his smile practiced.
“It’s a pleasure to see you again,” he says, reaching for my hand. “You look beautiful tonight.”
I thank him, making the right sounds, but his compliments don’t land.
I watch his mouth move and think of Emil’s voice—rough velvet, dangerous, a whisper at my ear that left me shaken and furious.
The Pedro boy is everything I should want: stable, respectful, predictable.
My uncle’s eyes are on me, silently urging me to respond, to play the part.
“I hope you’re enjoying the evening,” Carlos says, voice smooth and eager to please.
“My father says you’re a lover of art. Maybe you could help me understand the new paintings in the gallery?
” He waits for my approval, so I nod, letting him lead me through the room, trying to summon some flicker of interest.
Polite conversation follows, safe and colorless. He asks about books, I mention a few authors. He shares an anecdote about his dog; I laugh at the right places.
All the while, my mind keeps circling back to Emil. To the way his hand closed around my wrist, the way he looked at me like he could see straight through every mask I wear. I tell myself the memory is only revulsion, a kind of animal fear. That explanation fits better than the truth.
After a while, Carlos escorts me to the drinks table, his hand hovering at my back, always just short of contact. He’s so careful, so decent, so utterly forgettable.
The conversation hums around us, a thousand deals and old grudges being made and broken in every corner. I glance across the room and see Matteo in the middle of a heated discussion with a cousin; his eyes flick to me and narrow, but he says nothing.
“I know these events can be overwhelming,” Carlos says, handing me a glass of wine. “My father is always trying to make new alliances. He thinks the world can be put right with the right guest list.”
I sip my wine, searching for words. “Sometimes I wish it were that simple.” My voice is distant, lost even to myself.
He smiles, a little shy, a little hopeful. “I suppose it’s not easy, always being in the spotlight.” His concern is genuine, and for a moment, guilt flickers in my chest. He deserves better than to be a pawn in this endless game.
The conversation drifts to safer topics.
I nod and smile, but my thoughts wander.
My heart isn’t here; it’s caught on the sharp memory of Emil’s eyes, the promise and threat they held.
The world feels dull without that edge of danger, that spark of uncertainty. It terrifies me. It should disgust me.
When the evening finally starts to wind down, I find myself at the window, watching the city lights shimmer against the dark.
I catch my reflection in the glass, elegant, composed, exactly the girl my family wants me to be.
Yet my pulse quickens at the mere thought of a name that has ruined my life.
I let myself imagine it, just for a moment—facing Emil again, letting rage drive me, demanding the truth about Enzo.
I want to hate him; I want to destroy him.
The craving for answers burns away everything else, even the small voice inside me that wonders what it would feel like to have his hands on me, not in anger, but in surrender.
I turn from the window, forcing the thought away, reminding myself that hatred is safer than curiosity, that revenge is all I have left.
The laughter in the hall swells, but I barely hear it over the thunder of my own pulse. The lights are too bright, the voices too sharp, and I feel exposed—trapped in the glare of a thousand expectant eyes.
I raise my glass, pretending to sip as Carlos cracks another joke. My lips curve automatically, eyes darting over the room in search of escape.
Then I feel it. A prickle at the nape of my neck, the weight of a gaze that’s become painfully familiar. I glance up, and there he is.
Emil sits across the hall, surrounded by Russians in dark suits. They talk, gesture, laugh quietly, but Emil doesn’t join them. His posture is relaxed, one arm slung over the back of his chair, yet his eyes are locked on me. Unblinking. Carving straight through the crowd.
I can’t read his expression—calm, maybe bored—but the intensity in his stare sets every nerve in my body alight.
For a moment, I can’t breathe. I force a laugh at Carlos’s story, the sound brittle, hoping it will break the spell. Emil doesn’t look away. The message is clear: I see you. You belong to me.
My hands tremble as I set down my glass.
“Excuse me, I need some air,” I murmur, already slipping away.
I walk quickly, but not too quickly. Every step is rehearsed, every movement meant to look casual.
My heart pounds, but my mind is clear. If Emil wants a confrontation, he’ll get one. Tonight, I won’t run.
I find a shadowed corridor near the back of the house, where music fades and only the hum of the city leaks in through half-open windows.
My hand slips beneath the folds of my dress, fingers curling around the small dagger I hid there earlier.
The cool metal steadies me. This time, if he tries anything, I’ll be ready.
He finds me, of course. The air shifts before I even see him. He walks into the darkness like he owns it, footsteps soft and confident, face half lit by the hallway sconces. He shuts the door behind him, and the world outside is gone.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” I whisper, voice trembling despite my best efforts. The words sound weak in the quiet.
He steps closer, a taunt in his eyes. “You say that, but you waited for me. What were you planning, Bella?” His gaze flickers to my hand, lingering on the hilt of the blade.
“I’ll kill you if I have to,” I manage, brandishing the dagger, holding it between us like a shield. My arm shakes, but I lift my chin in defiance.
He smiles, slow and dangerous. “No, you won’t.” His hand moves fast, sure. In a blink, he closes the distance, grip crushing my wrist until my fingers go numb. The dagger clatters to the floor, useless.
“You don’t want to hurt me, Isabella,” he murmurs, voice soft as silk, “You want me.”
Rage surges. I twist, trying to break free, but his body cages mine against the wall, every inch of him heat and strength. He presses closer, his scent all leather and smoke and danger, his voice curling into my ear.
“You feel it, don’t you? The way your heart races when I touch you. The way you burn for me even when you hate me.”
His words ignite something reckless inside me.
I should scream. I should fight. Instead, my hands fist in his jacket, pulling him down.
His mouth crushes mine, fierce and hungry, a kiss born of desperation and rage and every forbidden want I swore I’d never feel.
I hate him. I need him. His hands claim my hips, possessive, as if he’s already won.
I bite his lip, hard, and he laughs against my mouth—a sound of victory, of challenge answered. The kiss turns wilder, lips bruising, breaths harsh and tangled.
For one endless moment, nothing else exists. Not the Brunos, not Enzo, not even my own fear. Just this—this impossible, dangerous fire.
Suddenly, the door slams open.
Light floods the hall. I wrench away from Emil, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. My uncle stands in the doorway, face purple with rage, gun half drawn. Behind him, Shawn Pedro, Matteo, and half the family stare, stunned. The silence is absolute.
“Get away from her,” Vittorio snarls, voice shaking with fury.
Emil doesn’t move. His hand slides to my waist, possessive and sure. His eyes don’t leave my uncle’s face. “We’ve been involved for some time,” he says, his tone maddeningly calm, almost smug. “I thought you deserved the truth.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. They destroy any hope I had of hiding what’s happened between us. My uncle’s hand trembles on the trigger.
“Isabella. Out. Now,” he spits, each syllable an order. “If you ever show your face in my home again, I swear I will end you myself.”
Shame burns through me. I stumble back, tears blurring my vision. Emil’s hand lingers on my hip for a moment—one last mark—before I break away, shoving past my family’s horrified faces, through the stunned crowd, out into the night.
I run, not sure where I’m going. Guilt and heartbreak choke every breath. I can’t stop replaying Emil’s words, his hands, the fire that almost ruined me. The laughter and music fade as I reach the edge of the lot, the dark swallowing me whole.
Only then do I notice the shadows moving behind me. Footsteps. I whirl, heart in my throat.
Three men step from the darkness, all sharp suits and cold smiles. Emil’s men.
One of them tips his head, voice low and respectful. “Miss Bruno, Mr. Sharov would like to speak with you. Please come with us.”
My mind screams no, but my feet won’t move. I’m caught, cornered—no family left to run to, no place left to hide. I glance back at the mansion, lights glaring, faces at the windows. No one will save me now.