Chapter 010 Isabella
I wait until 2 a.m., when the compound sinks into its heaviest silence. The dark feels thick, almost wet, pressing against the windows. I have mapped every guard rotation by ear alone—the soft scuff of boots in the corridor, the low voices swapping shifts, the faint mechanical sigh of cameras turning.
Security has tightened since the gala. Patrols doubled. Cameras watched around the clock—or so Viktor believes.
But I know this place now. I know the guard who steps outside at 2:15 for a cigarette, clove smoke drifting back through the cracked door while he’s gone exactly seven minutes. I know the east corridor camera that hesitates four seconds on its pan. I know the service entrance alarm that yields to the right sequence of pressure on the keypad.
Tonight I use them all.
The lockpick slides free from my hair—thin titanium, warm from my scalp. Milo’s gift. It feels like a promise. My bare feet find the cold marble without a sound, weight rolling heel to toe the way Rocco drilled into me years ago. The chill bites up through my soles, sharp and clarifying. Better than thinking about Viktor’s hands.
I ghost through corridors I could draw blind. Past the new guard—vodka on his breath, snoring softly. The alarm panel gives under my fingertips. I lift a leather jacket from a hook near the door—too large, heavy with cigarette smoke—and pull it over the cotton dress. The weight across my shoulders reminds me of Viktor pinning me to the mirror yesterday, heat and threat in equal measure.
Then I’m outside.
Chicago night air slaps my face, damp and exhaust-sweet. Concrete tears at my bare feet. Each step stings, then numbs. My breath clouds. Sirens wail somewhere far south. The city keeps its own hours, indifferent.
I run.
One mile. Twelve minutes. Shadows, alleys that reek of urine, camera arcs I dodge by instinct. My soles are raw now, leaving faint red prints on rough patches. Blood, warm at first, then cold.
And still my mind circles back to him. To the study at the gala, his fingers inside me, stroking with ruthless precision until I shattered. Even now, running for my life and my family, heat pools low in my belly. I’m wet. The realization disgusts me and thrills me in the same breath.
The parking garage rises ahead, concrete and flickering fluorescents. Level three, northwest corner. A black SUV sits dark and cooling. I approach from the blind spot, tap the trunk twice, pause, tap once. Old signal. Childhood signal.
The driver’s door opens.
Rocco steps out—six-two, lean, buzzed dark hair, every movement economical. My middle brother. The one who taught me how to break a man’s neck before I was fourteen.
“You look terrible,” he says quietly, eyes already cataloguing damage.
“Charming as ever.”
He pulls me into a hug—quick, fierce, careful. Gun oil and cinnamon mints. When he lets go his gaze sharpens, clinical. “Injuries?”
“I’m managing.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
I don’t answer. He sees too much anyway.
He hands me a fresh burner phone. I tuck it against my skin, under the dress. Then I pull out the folded squares of toilet paper—notes scrawled in eyeliner, coded. Damp with my sweat.
“I mapped the gala,” I say. “Petrovs are locked in—old money, old oaths. But the Kuzmins…” I pause. “Viktor Kuzmin spent the night on his phone, stepping away from Sokolov, avoiding eye contact. They’re nervous. Hedging.”
Rocco’s eyes flick over the paper, absorbing. “You think they’d flip?”
“If someone offered the right incentive.”
A thin, dangerous smile touches his mouth. “Good work.”
I hesitate. “He fed me something else. Barones planning a big weapons shipment in three weeks. Germans backing it. Supposed to hit us hard.”
Rocco stills.
“It’s bait,” I say. “Obvious bait. He watched me read it. Waited. If it were real he’d use it himself—let us bleed walking into the trap. He handed it to me because he wants to see if I run to you.”
Rocco exhales through his nose. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He nods once. “Enzo will want to know. Matteo’s ready to burn the city down.”
“Tell Matteo to wait.”
“I’ve been telling him that for weeks.” A ghost of humor. Then his face softens, rare and fleeting. “How are you, Sof? Really.”
I almost laugh. How am I.
His fingers were inside me, Rocco. I came on his hand and hated myself for wanting more.
The words stay locked behind my teeth.
“I’m fine,” I say.
He doesn’t believe me. I see it in the tight line of his jaw.
“Tommy’s coming next month,” he says, deflecting. “Bringing his sister.”
I raise an eyebrow. “The one who wrote you letters?”
“She wrote the family.”
“She asked about you.”
His ears go red under the harsh light. The sight almost breaks me—my lethal brother flustered over a woman.
We have minutes left.
“If it gets bad,” he says, voice low, “you call. Mission be damned. You call, I come get you.”
“I know.”
“Promise me.”
I think of the basement, the knife at my throat, Viktor’s voice promising my death. I think of how my body arched toward him anyway.
“I promise,” I lie.
He releases my arm. I step back into the shadows.
The return route is different—protocol. My feet are entirely numb now, blood smearing behind me like accusations. The city breathes around me, cold and uncaring. Every alley could hide eyes. Every footstep could be pursuit.
I slip back through the service door. The compound swallows me again.
Almost to my room when boots echo. I melt into a doorway, breath held. A guard rounds the corner, flashlight sweeping. Garlic on his breath. The beam slides across the floor, pauses on the edge of my bare foot.
Moves on.
I count to thirty. Then I move.
Door locked behind me. Jacket shoved deep in the wardrobe. Lockpick returned to my hair. I collapse onto the bed, heart still hammering.
Safe.
For now.
I stare at the ceiling. Guilt twists sharp under my ribs. The intelligence I passed wasn’t just tactical. It was personal. The way Viktor’s hands tremble—almost imperceptibly—when he trims that bonsai, thinking no one notices. The grief he carries like a second skin.
Every observation I handed Rocco felt like cutting a piece from him.
He’s the enemy. He caged me. He wants my family dead.
But my body doesn’t care about enemies. It remembers his mouth on mine, tasting blood and victory after our sparring. It remembers him growling there’s my girl when I finally fought back with everything I had. It remembers the crack of Tork’s fingers when the man dared touch what Viktor had claimed.
I shift on the sheets. Wetness slicks my thighs. My hand starts downward before I stop it, fingers trembling.
This is what he’s done—turned betrayal into arousal. Turned captivity into craving.
I’m a weapon. Rocco forged me.
I’m a spy. My family needs me.
I’m a sister. Always.
I’m a liar. Improving daily.
But here, in the dark, with Viktor’s voice echoing proud and possessive in my head, I’m something else too.
A woman falling for the man who plans to destroy everything I love.
And the worst part—the part that terrifies me most—is how right it feels.