Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
ISABELLA
Two months later, New York
I pack the last of my belongings into a moving box and look around the space that was once my home. I loved this apartment; no matter what happened within its walls, it had been home to me.
From when I first moved to New York and met Anthony, to now, all these years later, and leaving. No longer head of a mafia family, but starting my own.
With a man I adore more than words could say.
I go about the rooms, checking that I have everything packed and haven’t left anything that the movers will miss. Not that I was giving up on the space entirely, but I did have a wonderful new tenant for the apartment, and I’m certain she’ll love it as much as I do.
I find a dress still hanging in my wardrobe and pick it up. How the hell did I miss that? I walk out into the living room area to add it to my open suitcase and freeze.
“Hey, Bells,” Rodin says, leaning casually on the doorframe of my apartment door.
I clasp my stomach, not fully healed after being shot by one of his goons' guns, from what ballistics stated on the bullet that was recovered.
“You need to leave, Rodin. If you like the life you’re currently living, thanks to me, I might add, you best get out of here.” Not that I won’t be telling Anthony of Rodin visiting me. There are no secrets between us anymore.
Nor would there ever be one again.
“I never got that kiss,” he says, ignoring my warning and stepping into the apartment. He closes the door and walks around, inspecting the place as if he’s going to purchase it. “Looks different all packed up and empty. I’ll miss our time here.”
Now that he no longer needs to pretend to be who he is, the Russian accent is thick. I stare at him. Has the man lost his god damn mind? “Leave. I won’t warn you again.”
“Hey, hey, hey.” He holds up his hands in submission. “I just want my kiss that was promised, and I’ll leave. It was part of the deal, and so, it’s not finalized until then.”
I shake my head. The man has lost it. What does he expect me to do? Fall into his arms like I want to kiss him. I don’t. I couldn’t think of anything viler in my life. “I’m not kissing you. I’m not doing anything with you.”
“Bells, Bells, Bells, don’t be so prickly. I’m not here to cause any trouble, I’m just here to get what’s due to me.”
“Well, one of your goons shot me, so I think we’re pretty even now. You have your money, the business deals, now leave before you lose your life.”
He scoffs and smiles, and I can’t believe I ever fell for his charms. How had I not guessed he was playing me the entire time? He could certainly do a great American accent.
“You weren’t supposed to be hurt, but in situations like that, bullets can sometimes be waylaid…”
“Waylaid? Like waylaid in my stomach?” I move around the kitchen, placing the counter between us. “Leave, Rodin. You’re not getting what you want.”
“I’m not?” He scrunches up his face, and before I know what he was about, he’s rounding the bench. I try to move to keep the counter between us, but I slip, and with my sore abdomen, I’m unable to right myself quickly enough.
He clasps me about the waist and hauls me onto the benchtop. His fingers pinch my jaw, and he forces me to look at him. I try to kick him, but my head swims at the pain shooting through my body at his rough touch.
“Let me go. You’re hurting me.”
“We could have been so God damn good together. I was so soft and gentle with you. I knew you were a hard one to crack open, so closed off emotionally, but I was close. So tantalizing close, before that bastard Moretti turned back up again.”
“Leave Anthony out of this. He has nothing to do with what happened between us.”
Rodin’s finger runs down my cheek to my lips, before he forces it into my mouth. I gag, and his sadistic smile is new, scary, and tells me he’s unhinged.
“Suck it, baby.”
I glare, and instead of sucking it, I bite. Hard.
He screeches like a little boy throwing a tantrum, and rips his finger out of my mouth. I throw back my head and laugh. I know I shouldn’t. He’s volatile and could lash out without warning, but damn him. Damn any man who thinks they can get away with whatever they want.
“You bitch.” I brace for the sting of his slap, but it never comes.
Instead, I hear a roar to my side and see Anthony barrel into Rodin, hurling him several feet from where he was standing. Anthony hits Rodin like a freaking freight train.
The impact sends Rodin crashing sideways into the kitchen wall, and the whole kitchen shudders.
I slide off the benchtop, one hand pressed to my stomach, the pain from my wound flaring white hot as my feet hit the floor.
I grip the counter behind me and hold on because my legs are doing something unreliable beneath me.
Anthony drags Rodin off the wall and hits him again. His assault isn't methodical, but personal and furious. A rage that’s been building since the moment Rodin walked into our meeting and said my name as if he owned it.
Rodin recovers faster than I expect. He gets his hands up and shoves Anthony back hard, and they circle each other in the wreckage of my half-packed living room.
Rodin's face has changed completely. The charm is gone, and what's underneath is cold.
He came here knowing this was a possibility. He came here anyway.
Rodin throws the first fist. Anthony takes it on the cheekbone and doesn't go down. He comes back with two body shots that double Rodin forward, and they go into my bookshelf, and half my shelves tumble to the floor.
I press myself against the counter and watch and feel completely, furiously useless.
I want to help. Every instinct is screaming at me to move, but my body won't cooperate. The wound is a wall of pain, and I know with cold clarity that if I throw myself into this, I'll do more damage than good.
Rodin goes for a cheap shot, a grab from behind, going for Anthony's throat.
Anthony reads it before it lands. He drops his weight, drives his elbow back hard into Rodin's ribs, and breaks the hold before it's even fully established.
Rodin staggers, and Anthony turns and hits him clean across the jaw.
Rodin goes down.
My heart is hammering, but I don't move. Rodin looks up from the floor, breathing hard, and for one long second, I look directly into his eyes and see something I don't expect. Not rage. Not humiliation. I blink, sure I’ve seen heartbreak.
Rodin backs toward the door, his gaze holding mine. "We could have been extraordinary," he says. He means it. That’s the worst part.
"Get out of my life," I say.
He looks at Anthony. “This isn’t over.”
“The fuck it isn’t,” Anthony says, going toward him again.
Rodin opens the door and leaves.
Anthony crosses to me in four strides, and his hands are on my face immediately, checking me over. "Did he hurt you? Tell me right now, did he hurt you?"
"I'm okay,” I say, steadier than I feel. "Anthony, I'm okay."
"Your stomach —"
"Is fine. I'm fine." I take his hands from my face and hold them. His knuckle is split, and there’s a mark forming on his cheekbone that’s going to be spectacular by tomorrow. He’s staring at me with such fear that my heart twists. "I bit him," I say. "Before you got here. I bit his finger."
Anthony stares at me.
"Hard," I add.
He laughs. Short and rough and I can’t help but laugh also. "Of course you did," he says.
I squeeze his hands and glance around my living room, thankfully not as broken up as Rodin Dragunovik is. "Take me home," I say. "I want to go home."
His thumb moves across my knuckles. "Yeah, baby," he says quietly. "Let's go home."