Chapter 12
TWELVE
ISABELLA
I run into Jane setting up the dining room for breakfast and ask her to send all my future meals to my room, and that this morning I'll be eating on my balcony.
"Are you sure, Miss Romero?" she asks, a concerned frown between her brows. "Was dinner not to your liking last evening? Is there anything we can do to make you more comfortable?"
They could start by removing the behemoth beast of a man I’m sharing this roofline with, but barring that, there is little they can do to help.
"No. Dinner was lovely last evening. I just think it would be best if I spent as little time with Mr. Moretti as possible.
We no longer get along as well as we used to.
" There was nothing wrong with Jane knowing that little tidbit of truth.
Even though I had gone to his room this morning. A ridiculous decision on my part I now regret. The sight of him, towel wrapped around his waist, his muscled abdomen and chest with a sprinkling of dark hair, left me almost gasping for breath.
How could he, of all people, grow older and age like fine wine? Why couldn't he have curdled like milk left out in the sun for too long?
Damn it.
I grab my laptop from my bag, one of the devices I’m allowed to travel with, and set it up on the balcony.
The morning air is already warm, carrying the faint salt-tang of the ocean, and somewhere below in the garden, a bird I don't recognize is chirping. I need to email Richard now that we’re out of imminent danger.
He'll be wondering where the hell I am, and the last thing I need is for him to go to the police and report me missing.
FROM: Isabella
TO: Richard
SUBJECT: Away for a bit—work thing
Hi Richard,
I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to tell you this in person. It all happened so fast. Something came up with work, and I had to leave New York at very short notice. I know, terrible timing, and I hate that I couldn't even give you a proper heads-up.
I just didn't want you to wonder where I'd disappeared to. It's nothing dramatic, purely work-related. I'll be back in New York soon, and I'll reach out the moment I'm home. I'll explain everything then.
Speak soon, Isabella.
I press send and lean back in my chair, raising my face to the warm morning sun.
It's already high enough to feel on my skin, that humid Hawaiian heat that has nothing in common with a New York summer.
It looks like today is going to be glorious, and with Richard now advised that I'm away at work, that should buy me some time before he gets suspicious.
Or worse, rings the police, thinking I'm missing.
FROM: Richard
TO: Isabella
SUBJECT: RE: Away for a bit—work thing
Isabella,
Hey, I'm at the office, so keeping this brief, but I'm glad you reached out. No problem at all on the short notice; these things happen.
That said, where are you? I mean it in the best possible way, but I'd love to know. If you're not too far, I could genuinely come out to you this weekend. Even just for a day. Whatever works.
Is everything okay? You'd tell me if something was wrong, right? I just want to make sure you're alright.
I'll miss you. More than is probably reasonable, given how new this is. Come back soon.
Richard
P.S. Seriously, where are you?
FROM: Isabella
TO: Richard
SUBJECT: RE: RE: Away for a bit—work thing
Richard,
You're sweet, and that P.S. made me smile, genuinely.
Everything is fine, I promise. I just didn't want you thinking I'd gone missing or, worse, that I was avoiding you. It's work, plain and simple, and I couldn't exactly say no when they needed me.
As for where I am, I'll tell you all about it over dinner when I'm back. Which will be soon. Don't plan any trips on my behalf, just sit tight.
I'll be in touch the moment I land back in New York. Promise.
Isabella x
I close my laptop just as my breakfast arrives.
Jane sets it down without a word, arranging the plate and coffee cup with quiet efficiency.
The eggs benedict and smashed avocado on toast look delicious, and I smile up at her.
"Thank you. This looks amazing." She gives a small nod and retreats, leaving me to eat in peace.
The coffee is strong and good. I wrap both hands around the cup and look out over the grounds and sea beyond.
The waves break farther out on a reef, rolling in long and lazy before they dissolve into white foam at the shoreline.
The beach this house sits on is long and looks deserted.
The sand is pale, almost white in the morning light, and the water beyond the reef is that deep, improbable blue you only ever see in photographs.
Do the Morettis own all this land around the house, too?
Is the beach private? It wouldn't surprise me if all of that is true.
Movement through the garden catches my eye, and I see Anthony walking down toward the shore.
He's wearing board shorts and nothing else.
His broad shoulders catch the light as he moves through the garden, unhurried, like a man with nothing to prove and nowhere urgent to be.
I watch him over the rim of my coffee cup.
What's not to enjoy? I may loathe the man, but I can still admire his body. There’s a small hut just before the beach, and he disappears inside it before walking out with a surfboard under one arm.
He surfs, too? I lean back in my chair and lift my legs up to get more comfortable as he slides out onto the water and paddles into the deep.
From up here on the balcony, he's small against the scale of the ocean, just a dark shape sitting out past the break.
Several waves pass him by as he sits on the board before he finally catches one.
He rides the breaking wave with ease, diving into the water when he loses his balance. When the hell did he learn to surf? He’s from New York. Part of a mafia empire. The thought of any Moretti being an ocean lover seems a little absurd.
For a good half hour, he surfs alone before walking back onto the shore and laying his board down.
He sits on it and stares out at the water.
I find I've stopped eating. My fork rests in my hand, and I'm just watching him. What is he thinking about right now? He looks lost in contemplation. I suppose he’s as worried as I am about what's happening in New York.
Being here in Hawaii isn't ideal. We should be back in the city, protecting what's ours from the Dragunoviks, but if I return, I'll probably be killed. They’re out for blood now, and I have taken Rodin's younger brother’s life. Mine is undoubtedly next.
This is not a good start to running the Romeros.
Then I see a man I haven't noticed before, security perhaps, step out from the hut and hand Anthony his cell.
He stands as he takes the call, and even from this distance, I can tell something has shifted.
The easy posture is gone. He turns away from the water, one hand pressed to his free ear against the breeze, and I watch him pace a short, tight line in the sand.
He's nodding. Then still. Then nodding again. Whatever is being said on that call, it’s not nothing.
I set my fork down.
He ends the call and doesn't hesitate. He's moving, crossing the beach fast, the surfboard abandoned where he left it.
I lose him as he cuts through the garden below, and I sit forward in my chair, suddenly alert.
What's happened? Has something broken in New York? Have the Dragunoviks made another move?
My pulse is doing something uncomfortable by the time I hear him on the stairs inside.
Then my bedroom door flies open.
Anthony fills the doorframe, jaw set, eyes finding me immediately out on the balcony. He crosses the room in four strides. I barely have time to open my mouth before he snatches my laptop off the table, turns, and hurls it clean over the balcony railing.
I'm on my feet. "What the hell —"
"You emailed him." It isn't a question.
"Are you out of your goddamn fucking mind?" I spin to look over the railing. My laptop is somewhere in the garden below, almost certainly dead. I turn back to him, furious. "That was my laptop, Anthony!"
"You emailed Richard." He says the name like it's an accusation. Like it hurts some part of his innards. "I just got a call from security in New York telling me you did, so don’t fucking lie. Again.”
"I’m seeing the guy. What the hell did you expect me to do!" I step toward him. "He has no idea where I am. I was worried he’d ring the police."
"So let him."
"Let him?" I stare at him. "And have them start asking questions about where I've gone? That helps us how, exactly?"
"It's better than leaving a trail." His voice is low and measured in that way he has, the way that makes it worse somehow, like there's a great deal more behind his tone being held back by sheer will. "No contact, Isabella. Not with anyone."
"I didn't agree to that." I hold my ground. "And Richard is not anyone. He's…"
"He's a liability if he is who he says he is at all.
" Anthony takes a step toward me. We are closer than is comfortable, nearer than is sensible. "We don’t know who is watching. We don’t know how much the Dragunoviks already know about your life in New York.
Anyone you contact right now is a thread they can pull. "
"You're being paranoid." Even as I say this, his words make my stomach churn, thinking they could find out about Ivy. Please God, keep her safe.
"I'm being careful." His eyes don't leave mine. "There's a difference. One of us needs to be."
The words land where he wants them to. I want to fire something back, but for a half second, I don't have it in me, and the silence between us is loud with everything neither of us is saying. He’s close enough that I can see the salt still drying on his collarbone from the ocean.
Close enough that when I breathe in, all I can smell is ocean and the untouchable man he’s become.
A stranger I find hard to reconcile the one I once knew.
Not that we haven’t always been a volatile, hot, and heavy couple.
Now is no different. He’s breathing rapidly, and I can feel the pull of him, even with everything that sits between us.
He’s the father of my cherished child. No matter how many years I try to ignore it, it’s a truth I can’t deny or pretend isn’t real.
I’m absolutely not thinking right now and need him to leave before I turn all the anger thrumming through me into something else.
Passion.
Desire.
Fleeting satisfaction.
"Miss Romero?"
We both turn. Jane stands in the doorway to the balcony, a folded cloth over one arm, her eyes moving between the two of us with the perfectly calibrated expression of someone who has seen a great deal and intends to acknowledge none of it.
"I've come to clear away the breakfast things," she says pleasantly. "Shall I come back?"
Anthony and I retreat a step from each other. The distance between us reassembles itself into something appropriate. "No," I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Go ahead, Jane. We're finished."
I don't look at Anthony as he leaves the room.