Chapter 022 Isabella
Two hours of silence, and the lakehouse finally pushed through the morning mist like something half-remembered from a dream I never wanted to have again. My legs ached from the long drive, from sitting beside Viktor while he stared straight ahead, hands tight on the wheel, saying nothing. Whatever ghosts he carried had already started whispering to him long before we arrived.
The house rose out of the fog—dark wood, wide wraparound porch, traditional lines softened by years of neglect. Even from the driveway I could see the problems: too many windows, too many doors, no clear sightlines, no escape routes except the lake or the woods. My hand moved to my thigh out of habit, expecting the weight of a knife, finding only the thin fabric of my dress.
Viktor killed the engine. We sat there a moment longer, neither of us ready to move.
"It's been empty for years," he said, voice rough, like he hadn't used it since we left Chicago.
I followed him up the porch steps. The third one groaned under my weight. The fifth stayed quiet. My fingers brushed the railing and found letters carved deep into the wood—M.V. in Cyrillic, edges worn smooth by years of someone tracing them. Dimitri had been here before we ever opened the door.
The front door stuck. Viktor put his shoulder to it, and it gave with a reluctant creak. No alarm. No cameras. Just an old lock I could have picked in ten seconds flat. We were exposed, and the knowledge settled cold under my skin.
Inside, the air smelled of pine, lake water, and something sweet that had gone stale. Dust floated in the pale morning light. Everything was covered in white sheets like furniture laid out for a funeral.
Viktor started pulling the sheets away, sharp, angry movements that raised clouds of dust. Each piece he uncovered felt like exposing a body: worn leather couches, a chessboard left mid-game, pieces tipped over like they'd been waiting for a hand that never came back. My chest tightened. Guilt had become a second heartbeat.
Photos covered the walls—two boys and a girl growing up in faded summers. Fishing poles, bonfires, birthday cakes. Dimitri everywhere, alive in ways he wasn't allowed to finish.
My body reacted to Viktor's grief the way it always did: wrong. The controlled violence in his hands as he yanked fabric away sent heat curling low in my stomach. I hated myself for it.
I stopped at a window where a small bonsai sat on the sill, branches brittle, soil cracked and dry. The pot was delicate, painted with tiny cranes.
"Dimitri's," Viktor said behind me, close enough that his heat reached my back. "He brought it here every summer. Said the lake air was good for it."
I touched one dead branch. It crumbled to dust between my fingers.
The bookshelf held rows of architecture books, spines cracked from use. I pulled one down and loose sketches fluttered out—buildings that only ever existed on paper. A photograph slipped free: Dimitri at seventeen maybe, arm slung around someone who'd been carefully cut away. The edge was soft, like someone had worried it with their thumb for years.
"Father said architecture was weak," Viktor said. His voice had that low rasp that always tightened things inside me, even now. "Impractical."
"But he kept the books."
"He kept everything that mattered." A pause. "Even when it hurt him."
I moved down the hall to what had to be Dimitri's room. No cover, bad sightlines. Inside, it was frozen at eighteen: drafting table with an unfinished sketch still pinned to it, half-built model of something grand, bed made with sharp military corners. Waiting.
"He'd stay up all night drawing," Viktor said from the doorway, filling it completely. "I'd find him asleep at the desk, pencil in his hand, drooling on the plans."
The picture hurt in a way I couldn't name. "What else?"
"Everything. Nothing." He moved past me to open windows, letting in damp lake air that mixed with his cologne. My body clenched. "Collected rocks from the shore. Sorted them by color. Taught me to fish even though I hated waiting. Built a treehouse that collapsed in the first big storm."
"And you?"
He stopped, arms full of dusty sheets. "I was whatever he needed. Student. Audience. Shadow." He turned away. "I don't know if I was ever anything else."
We ended up on the porch with coffee gone cold, watching the mist burn off the lake. I'd walked the perimeter twice. Nothing. No sensors, no cameras, just trees and water and silence.
Viktor's phone buzzed on the table between us. He glanced at the screen and his jaw locked. He silenced it.
It rang again. And again.
"You should answer," I said quietly.
He picked up on the fourth try and walked to the railing. "Katya."
I couldn't hear her side, but I watched him change. Shoulders drawing up, hand gripping wood until knuckles bleached. A small sway, almost nothing, but I noticed.
"When?"
His head dropped.
"Was she… did she…"
He closed his eyes.
"Ya ponimayu," he said, voice cracked open. "Spasibo, Katya."
The call ended. He stood frozen, phone dangling.
"Viktor?"
"She's gone." Flat. Empty. "My mother. Early this morning, Moscow time."
I stood slowly.
"I'm sorry."
"She died asking for him." The words broke. "For Dimitri. Kept saying his name. 'Gde moy mal'chik? Gde Misha?'"
The Russian made it worse. Realer. My lungs forgot how to work.
"I should have gone." He still wouldn't face me. "She begged for weeks. And I stayed here. With you."
The accusation hung there, heavy as a blade.
I reached for his back. He flinched like I'd struck him.
"Don't." Dangerous now, that tone that usually made me wet. Today it just hurt. "Just… don't."
The air thickened. His shoulders started shaking. When the dam broke, it was sudden and total.
"My father," he spat. Then switched to Russian, fast and vicious—words I understood perfectly: monster, made her kneel, eat from his hand, punished her for looking at another man, locked her away.
He turned. Tears cut tracks down his face.
"He made her kneel for hours at dinner parties. Made her eat from his hand while guests watched. Like a dog."
My stomach turned.
"And she never left. Loved him, or was too broken to know."
His eyes found mine, shattered.
"The shoes," he choked. "Making you walk while your feet bled. Counting steps."
The parallel hit me like cold water.
"The feeding. My fingers in your mouth."
"The collar at the gala. Showing everyone you were mine."
His legs gave out. He hit the porch boards hard, sobs ripping out of him—ugly, raw, unstoppable.
"Ya stal im," he gasped. "Ya stal ottsom."
I dropped beside him, took his face in my hands. He tried to pull away.
"Look at me."
Red-rimmed eyes met mine.
"You're not him."
"I am—"
"You stopped." I held tighter. "You're here on your knees crying about it. Did your father ever apologize?"
"Nikogda."
"Did he ever think he was wrong?"
"No."
"Then you're not him."
"How can you forgive me?"
"Because I choose to."
His sobs slowed to shudders. When he was empty, I helped him stand.
Inside, I made eggs. Terrible ones. He ate anyway. We sat on the old couch in slanting afternoon light.
He told me about his mother before—her laugh, her awful violin, the lullabies. The woman she might have been.
"She would have liked you," he said suddenly.
"Yeah?"
"She wanted someone who fought back."
He took my hands, grip desperate.
"I will never treat you that way again. Never. You'll never kneel unless you want to. Never fear me. I'll spend the rest of my life earning this."
The promise settled, solid and real.
That night we made love in a bed that felt haunted anyway. Nothing like before. No struggle, no violence. His hands shook as they moved over me, learning me without owning. When he slid inside, slow and careful, tears ran down my face.
After, tangled together, I checked the windows again. Still nothing. Tomorrow we'd have to think about Moscow, funerals, fallout. Tonight we just held each other.
I'd moved my knife under the mattress when we arrived—old habit. Even in his arms, even feeling safer than ever, I was still what Rocco made me.
Terrifying. Perfect. Completely fucked up.
Exactly us.
His hand found my thigh in sleep, fingers tightening possessively. My body answered instantly—nipples hard, heat pooling between my legs. He stirred, not quite awake, teeth grazing my throat.
"Isabella," he murmured, voice rough with sleep and something darker.
Good. I didn't want the darkness gone.
I needed the threat under the tenderness. Needed the edge that made my heart race. Grief would sharpen it again tomorrow, bend his promises without breaking them.
And when he asked me to kneel again—and he would—I'd choose it.
Some hungers don't vanish. They just wait.
We're both still starving.