Chapter Twenty-Seven - Isabella
I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see the barrel of Matteo’s gun, hear the echo of his voice: “…before I change my mind.” I pace the floor of Dimitri’s home, back and forth, back and forth, until the rug bunches under my bare feet.
The house is quiet, too quiet, each creak of wood and sigh of old pipes setting my nerves on edge.
I can’t shake the memory of my family turning on me—of my uncle ordering my death, of Matteo’s face twisted in agony as he let me go.
My hands won’t stop shaking. I make tea and let it go cold, the cup trembling in my grip. I try to read, to lose myself in anything that isn’t this spinning, sickening fear, but every word blurs, every page is just another reminder that nothing in my life will ever be normal again.
It feels impossible. Unreal. My own blood tried to erase me. The Brunos were supposed to be my sanctuary, my last line of defense.
Now, I’m an exile in my own city, locked in a gilded cage that isn’t a home, haunted by the knowledge that I am hated on both sides. A pawn, a prize, an embarrassment. Not a daughter, not a niece, not even a wife—just a mark of shame.
Outside, the night drags on. I sit by the window, arms wrapped tight around my knees, staring at the empty driveway.
I try to imagine where Emil is. If he’s alive.
If he’s even thinking of me. My heart thuds with every distant siren, every flash of headlights far down the road.
I imagine men coming for the house, guns drawn, and I flinch at shadows that aren’t there.
The fear gnaws at me, but underneath it, something harder forms—a bitter resolve. They tried to kill me. They failed. I’m still here.
But then, finally, the familiar black SUV pulls up to the gates.
Headlights sweep the drive, catching on the fountain, the marble steps.
My breath stutters. I leap to my feet, palms pressed against the glass, squinting into the glare.
The car doors open. Lukyan emerges first, then Dimitri, both looking worn, hollow-eyed, hands flecked with blood. Then Emil steps out.
He’s limping, face battered, split lip and dark bruises blooming along his jaw. There’s blood on his shirt, fresh and dark, staining the fabric from collar to cuff. He moves slowly, shoulders hunched, but he’s standing, he’s moving, he’s alive. For one wild, dizzying second, I think I might faint.
I don’t care who sees. I fly down the stairs, bare feet slapping marble, heart in my throat. The front door swings open before I can reach for the handle. Dimitri steps aside, and then Emil is there, looming in the entryway, bloody and battered and real.
I crash into him, arms going around his waist, sobs bursting free before I can bite them back. For a second, he just stands there, stiff and startled. Then his arms come around me, careful, not too tight. He’s hurt, I realize, there’s a tremor in his grip.
I tip my face up, eyes blurring with tears, and he just stares down at me, smirking faintly through the mess of his face.
“Worried?” he teases, voice rough but familiar.
I nod, my voice breaking, unable to hold back the flood. “I thought you’d die,” I whisper, clutching at his shirt, feeling the stickiness of blood and the warmth of him beneath. “I thought they’d kill you. Matteo, my uncle—”
He hushes me with a gentle touch, his thumb brushing a tear from my cheek.
The look in his eyes is something I’ve never seen before, a raw, rare softness, a tenderness he keeps locked behind iron most days.
For a moment, he just holds my gaze, as if searching for the right words, as if he can’t quite believe I’m real either.
His hand comes up, cradling my jaw, steadying me. His voice is quiet, and there’s nothing cold in it now. Just exhaustion and something dangerously close to hope.
“Vittorio won’t hurt you again,” he says simply.
My breath hitches in my throat. I stare up at Emil, searching for answers in his battered face. The way he holds me is gentler than I’ve ever felt from him. Steady, careful, as if he’s holding the last fragile thing he has left. The words tumble out, raw and broken.
“You killed him?” My voice quivers, almost lost in the hush of the hall.
He’s silent for a long moment. Then, finally, he nods—just once. His eyes are dark, unreadable. The smirk is gone, wiped away by something heavier, older than either of us. It’s the confirmation I always thought I wanted, but now it lands like a stone in my chest.
I crumble. My knees go weak, and I press my face into his bloodstained shirt, sobbing. The pain spills out of me—weeks, months, maybe years of grief and rage and confusion.
“Why did things have to be this way?” I choke out, the words cracking into the empty space between us. “Why couldn’t you just let us be?”
He holds me for a moment, his grip uncertain, as if unsure whether I want him close or not. Then he sighs, his breath shuddering against my hair. For the first time since I met him, he sounds… tired. Human.
“I didn’t kill Enzo, Isabella,” he says quietly. “Not like you think. I would never have hurt him.”
I pull back, blinking tears from my eyes. “What are you talking about? You’re the reason he’s dead. You’re the reason I…” My voice falters.
He shakes his head, looking down at the ruined floor, at the bloody prints left by his boots. “Enzo and I… we were working together. We met in secret for months, trying to find a way to stop the war between our families. He wanted peace. Real peace, not the kind that comes with a body count.”
The world seems to tilt under my feet. I shake my head, not wanting to believe it. “No. He hated you. He—”
Emil cuts me off gently. “He didn’t. He saw what was coming. He knew your uncle would never accept compromise. He thought if he and I could find some common ground, maybe the old men would listen. Maybe you and I would never have to live like this.”
I feel dizzy, like I’m falling and there’s nothing to catch me. “But why didn’t you ever tell me? Why did you let me believe you—”
His jaw tightens. “I couldn’t. It would have put you in danger.
Vittorio found out about the meetings, and he thought Enzo was betraying the family, plotting with the enemy.
He had him executed, Isabella. Not me. I was supposed to die that night too, but Enzo warned me. He died saving me, not fighting me.”
The truth rips through me, shattering every story I ever told myself about who the villain was. I stagger back, pressing a hand to my mouth, breath coming in shallow gasps.
My mind reels with memories: Enzo’s gentle voice, the secret heaviness in his eyes, the way he hugged me a little too tightly the last time I saw him. I thought I knew who to blame. I thought I could draw a line—Bratva, Bruno, enemy, family. Now the line is gone.
My voice is a whisper. “You tried to help him.”
He nods, exhaustion lining his features. “I did. I failed. And then Vittorio pinned it on me, made sure you’d never trust me, made sure you’d hate me enough to keep away.”
Guilt, pain, and confusion crash through me, each sharp as a broken bone.
For so long I clung to the rage, the certainty that Emil was my brother’s killer.
Now I see the truth: the only person who ever tried to protect Enzo’s dream—the dream of peace—was the man I’ve spent months plotting to destroy.
I stand frozen, tears streaming down my face. The air between us is thick with everything unsaid: apologies that will never be enough, forgiveness I don’t know how to give, the weight of all the wrong choices. I want to scream, to hit him, to run away, but my feet stay rooted to the marble.
Emil steps closer, slow and careful, like he’s afraid I’ll shatter for good this time. His hand reaches for my shoulder, then hesitates, fingers brushing the fabric of my dress. “I’m sorry, Isabella. For everything I put you through. For letting you believe I was your enemy.”
His words don’t erase the pain, but they soften it—just a little. The fury that once filled me is hollow now, replaced by something far heavier.
“I blamed you,” I whisper. “I hated you for so long.”
He nods, eyes glistening, lips pressed thin. “I know. I let you. It was safer that way.”
My chest aches with the force of it all. I close the distance between us, not out of forgiveness, not out of love, but because I can’t bear the thought of being alone with this truth. I let him pull me into his arms, let him steady me as the sobs return, wracking my body with their violence.
I cling to him, and for once, he doesn’t look like my captor, my tormentor, the shadow who stole my old life away. He looks like the only person left in the world who hasn’t betrayed me, who understands what it is to lose everything, to be remade by grief.
He holds me close, one hand gentle on my back, the other brushing through my hair. He doesn’t try to hush me, doesn’t rush me, just stands there as I cry myself empty. My tears soak his shirt, mixing with his blood, with everything we’ve lost.
“I don’t know what to do,” I whisper, my voice so small I hardly recognize it. “I don’t know who I am without him. I don’t know what’s left.”
Emil presses his lips to my temple. “You survive. That’s all any of us can do.”
I nod, breath hitching, the weight of everything settling in my bones. I let myself lean on him, just for this moment. Maybe tomorrow the pain will come back, maybe the old anger will surface again.
In this ruined house, in the arms of the man I thought was my enemy, I find something like peace.
We stand together, two survivors clinging to the only truth we have left: that love and hate, loyalty and betrayal, are never simple. That in a world built on violence, sometimes the only way forward is through forgiveness, no matter how much it hurts.
Emil holds me tighter, as if he knows the storm isn’t over yet. I let him, because right now, he’s the only thing keeping me from being swept away.