Isabella #3
His voice remains even, but I can hear the strain under it.
“I need a brilliant strategist like your father was to help me make moves against them. I know he taught you well, Isabella.”
I feel the pull of it instantly, that old instinct stirring within me as my Russo blood hums in my veins.
It is stitched into me more deeply than the false name on my paperwork and the person I’ve been pretending to be for almost a decade.
Pattern analysis.
Weak points.
Pressure lines inside enemy lines.
That delicious, dangerous satisfaction of seeing three moves ahead while the other side still thinks they are safe on the first.
My father trained me in that language before I was old enough to understand how many daughters were never taught it. He would sit me beside him after meetings and ask what I saw.
Which one lied with his body instead of his mouth, what alliances were fracturing under the strain of politics and which insults had been filed away for future bloodshed.
He taught me to see the game beneath the board, to hear what men meant when they thought they were clever or too afraid to say something outright.
For one dangerous second, I imagine stepping back into that role.
I imagine the hum of my mind when it locks into that kind of work, the thrill of making invisible pieces align, the private rush of setting a trap so elegant, the enemy thinks it is his own idea right until the floor drops out beneath him.
It would be easy, I realize with a coldness that unsettles me. Too easy. Eight years away and that part of me is still there, still breathing just below the surface, patient as a predator in deep water. It does not feel dead. It feels hungry.
Then I picture Matteo’s face. I see him exactly as he was five minutes ago with grass-stained knees, hair in his eyes, mouth open in laughter because a little boy from two houses down missed an easy goal and collapsed into theatrical despair.
I see the gap where one of his baby teeth finally came loose last week, the roundness still lingering in his cheeks from when he was a toddler, the way he tucks his stuffed shark under one arm every single night and pretends he has outgrown it if anyone asks.
The entire fantasy of my life as a Russo dies instantly.
My answer comes immediately, unwavering. “I will not let that world touch my child. Not now, not ever. Find another way, Davide. I can’t.”
Disappointment flickers behind his eyes. “Is there anything I can offer you that will convince you to reconsider?”
My hands tighten in my lap so hard, my nails bite into my palms.
There it is, the bargain I knew had to be waiting beneath all that courtesy. It isn’t a threat, not yet, but an open invitation for a further negotiation. A door cracked just wide enough to see whether I will step through it willingly or be forced to be dragged through.
Even if I wanted to, even if I allowed that buried reckless part of me to rise up and uncurl after years of being in the dark, Matteo’s safety instantly drags me back down to reality with brutal force.
There is no version of this where I step back into a world I once inhabited and somehow keep my son untouched by it.
The underworld does not tolerate innocence for long. It notices softness the way sharks notice blood in the water.
It identifies vulnerabilities, catalogues them, then decides whether to exploit them now or save them for leverage later.
Children are never just children there. They are heirs, pressure points, future pawns and insurance policies. That is always how the machine works.
It grinds and consumes all who come before it.
Even if I tried to keep Matteo hidden, it would not matter for long.
Sooner or later, someone would look too closely, some enemy would ask the right questions, and my son would stop being the sweet seven-year-old who still believes in magic tricks and Santa Claus and become what that world would make of him.
Useful.
I would sooner die than let that happen.
“I’m sorry,” I say. My voice sounds distant even to me, as though the answer comes from some colder, steadier version of myself. “But no.”
Davide nods slowly. And then he does something I do not expect—he accepts it.
At least on the surface.
He does not lean forward and remind me what men in his position are capable of when denied. Nor do his eyes drift meaningfully toward the window where Matteo is still outside playing. He simply sits with the refusal and absorbs it.
For a moment, I am almost surprised he is not threatening me.
Most Dons in his position would. Cornered badly enough to seek outside help, someone like him would not walk into a room like this without at least one knife hidden behind their back.
If he truly is desperate enough to come here, to track me down after eight years and ask for the one thing I swore I would never give anyone again, then it must be bad.
Bad enough to override pride and risk spooking me.
That thought settles uncomfortably in my chest.
Davide’s gaze lowers briefly to his clasped hands before lifting back to mine. “I will be in town for a few more days. Please think things over until then. I will leave my contact information for you. If I don’t hear from you within a few days, I will take your no as your final answer.”
All I can do is nod before standing.
He doesn’t stay any longer after that. He and his men file out of my house without a fight, leaving just as quietly as they’d come. I watch them climb into their cars from my front porch, my arms wrapped around my body tightly in a self-soothing motion.
The black SUVs glide away down the cul-de-sac like an omen. The street returns to their peaceful rhythm once they disappear around the corner. I step back inside after watching the road for another few minutes, making sure they don’t circle back around again.
As soon as I lock the door, I lean against it. To my surprise, guilt seeps into the cracks of my resolve like saltwater into an open wound.
What would my father have wanted?
Would Amos Russo call me a coward for turning my back on an old friend like Davide? Or would he demand I run faster, burn every bridge that could lead violence back to my son?
My mind becomes a battlefield of contradictions. Loyalty versus survival, duty versus motherhood.
Beneath it all lies a single, aching truth. I wish my father were still alive. He would see the angles I cannot yet see. He would know the path forward buried beneath my fear.
But he is gone, shot down eight years ago in a betrayal that shattered everything and that I still have no answers for.
Matteo’s voice floats from down the hallway, innocent and bright. “Mom? Is it time for school yet?”
I push off the door and turn toward the sound of his voice. Pull it together. “Yes, baby. Grab your backpack and get your shoes on.”
He bounds down the hallway with his cleats in hand, his honey-gold eyes sparkling with excitement as he sprints for the door to grab his backpack. I ruffle his dark hair and pull him into a hug that lasts a second too long.
He blinks up at me when I finally let go. “You okay, Mom?”
“Absolutely,” I lie, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
We step outside into the warm morning air, hand in hand. The peaceful town stretches around us, the illusion of safety I have fought years to maintain. But the shadows of my past have never truly disappeared.
They only wait for the right moment to strike.
And today, they have found me once again.