Chapter Eleven
Isabella’s POV
The night broke apart in seconds, but my heart didn't race. It was steady and cold. This wasn't fear because I'd lived through worse nights. Nights filled with the smell of blood and smoke.
Another bullet hit the wall, and Mikhail cursed under his breath, reaching for the gun on the table, but I was already moving.
"Isabella–"
But it was too late. I pushed off, rolled to the side, and reached under my pillow. My fingers closed around the cool metal. Giovanni's pistol. The one I swore I'd never use again, the one I kept for nights just like this.
Mikhail froze when he saw it. "What the hell–"
I didn't answer, I just crouched low by the wall and aimed at the shadows through the broken window. One, two, three shots. The shot was clean and controlled. The gun kicked back lightly in my hand.
Someone outside screamed, and the silence that followed was heavy, just the wind rushing through the broken glass and Mikhail's breathing behind me. He was staring, and I could feel it. His shock was louder than the bullets.
"You... you know how to shoot," he said quietly, disbelief mixed with something else, something close to fear.
I kept my gun raised and my eyes scanning the window. "It's not that hard, Mikhail. You just point and don't miss."
He moved closer, his voice lower now. "Where did you get that?"
I gave a half smile. "A keepsake."
"From who?"
"Someone who taught me how to survive."
He didn't like that answer, and his jaw clenched, but he said nothing. He just stood there, eyes dark, trying to figure out what kind of woman he'd really married.
The door burst open again, and Yuri and two Bratva men stormed in, shouting. They saw me first, gun still in hand, then turned to Mikhail for orders.
"Outside," Mikhail said. "Find whoever's left."
The men ran. The sound of footsteps faded, leaving only the echo of chaos behind. I stood slowly, brushing glass off my dress. Mikhail was still watching me in silence.
"You can breathe now," I said softly, putting the pistol on the table.
He didn't move, didn't even blink. "What are you?" he finally muttered.
That made me smile. "Your wife, apparently."
He didn't smile back. His gaze was sharp, cold, but underneath that calm was something I hadn't seen before… doubt.
He took a step closer, and his voice was rough. "You could've told me."
He looked at it like it was a weapon that had just chosen sides. But it hadn't yet. I turned away first, walking past him, with my heart steady. Behind me, he was still standing there, breathing hard, and trying to understand the woman who just saved him, and scared him at the same time.
The smell of gunpowder still hung in the air, smoke curled through the broken window, catching the city lights and painting everything in shades of grey and red.
Boots thundered across the marble floors as Bratva soldiers stormed in, led by Yuri. "Boss!" he shouted, scanning the room, gun raised. "You okay?"
Mikhail didn't answer; he was still staring at me. His men spread out fast, checking corners, kicking over shattered furniture, searching for bodies. One of the intruders was still twitching on the floor, bleeding out near the balcony. Yuri shot him once without hesitation, and silence followed.
The fight was over, but the war between us had just started. I stood by the wall, the gun still warm in my hand. My breathing was steady, but inside, a flicker of satisfaction burned quietly. I hadn't just defended myself, I'd shown him something he couldn't unsee.
Mikhail's gaze never left me. He looked like a man who'd just woken up in a house he thought he built, only to realize the foundation wasn't his.
I ejected the magazine, checked the chamber, and set the pistol on the table. "You can breathe now," I said softly.
His jaw clenched, and no words came out of his mouth. He was just looking. Yuri broke the silence first. "We got three down outside. No ID yet. The car they came in with was torched. Someone planned this."
Mikhail's voice was low. "Find out who. I want answers by morning."
"Yes, boss." Yuri turned and began barking orders to the others.
I watched Mikhail as he walked closer in slow, deliberate steps.
The kind that said he wasn't sure if he wanted to thank me or interrogate me.
His shirt was half open, and glass dust was in his hair, but his eyes.
.. his eyes burned like he was trying to see through me. "You didn't freeze," he said finally.
"Should I have?"
His tone dropped. "Most people do."
"I'm not most people."
He stood right in front of me. The space between us felt heavy, and heat, smoke, and something unspoken shifted between us. He studied the pistol on the table, then looked back at me. "Where did you learn to shoot like that?"
"My father believed daughters should be as useful as sons."
"That's not an answer."
"No," I said quietly," it's the only one I'm giving."
His fingers brushed the table's edge, near the gun. "You kept this hidden."
I shrugged. "You didn't ask."
The muscle in his jaw ticked again. He hated losing control, even of small things. Especially around me. One of the soldiers returned with a report. "No more threats outside, sir. It's clear."
"Leave us alone," Mikhail said.
The men hesitated, glancing between us, then left. Only Yuri lingered until Mikhail nodded. The door closed, leaving us in a silence sharp enough to cut through. Mikhail finally spoke, in a low voice, almost a whisper. "You had a gun under your pillow this whole time?"
"Yes."
"And you never thought to tell me?"
I smiled faintly. "Would you have slept as soundly if I did?"
He stared at me for a long moment, then exhaled through his teeth, part anger, part disbelief. "You're something else, Isabella."
"That's what you married, isn't it?"
He laughed under his breath, but it wasn't amusement; it was frustration. "You scare the hell out of me."
"Good," I said, stepping past him. "Fear keeps people alive."
He caught my wrist, pulling me back gently. "Or it makes them dangerous. Make no mistake, darling wife, I never said I was scared of you."
I looked at his hand, then his face. His grip wasn't rough, but his eyes were searching, burning, like he wanted to strip every secret out of me.
"You should rest," I said finally. "You look worse than the men outside."
He didn't move, just whispered, "You don't even look shaken."
"I'm not."
And I wasn't. Because this… the smoke, the gunfire, the chaos, this was familiar, and it felt like home.
He watched me walk toward the bedroom, quiet and conflicted. His breath was heavy and uneven. I didn't turn back, but I could feel his stare follow me, like a man trying to decide if the thing he desired most might also be the thing that ruins him.
He looked at me like a man who'd kissed a rose and just found the thorns. The room was quiet now, too quiet. The smoke had faded, leaving only the smell of gunpowder and broken glass. Mikhail's men were gone, but his anger hadn't left with them.
He turned from the window, slow and dangerous, and his eyes locked on me. "Where did you learn to shoot like that?" he asked, his voice low but sharp.
I was brushing tiny pieces of glass from my hair. "You ask that as if it offends you."
"It does."
I looked at him, smirking. "You're not the only one who knows how to handle a weapon."
He stepped closer, his boots crunching over glass. "You had that gun hidden all along?"
"Yes."
His jaw tightened. "For how long?"
"Since the first night," I said simply.
His eyes darkened, with something dangerous flashing through them. "You slept beside me with a gun?"
I smiled faintly. "Would it have made you love me less?"
That stopped him for a heartbeat. Then, he laughed once, a sound without humor. "Love? Don't use that word like it means anything tonight."
"Then what should I call it?" I asked softly. "Possession?"
He took another step. The wall pressed against my back before I even realized I'd moved. He stood so close I could feel his breath brush my cheek.
"Maybe," he said. "Maybe I just don't like being lied to."
"You didn't ask," I reminded him.
"That's not an answer.
"It's the only one I'm giving."
The silence between us stretched tight, like a wire ready to snap. His eyes swept over my face, searching and demanding, but I didn't look away.
"You're calm," he said after a moment. "Too calm."
"Should I scream? Cry? Or beg?"
He leaned in and whispered. "You should act like your life was almost taken."
I tilted my head, smiling slightly. "Maybe it wasn't mine they came for."
That made him freeze. His hand shot out, catching my wrist. "Don't play games with me, Isabella."
"I'm not."
"Then tell me what you know."
I met his gaze. "You wouldn't believe me if I did."
He stared at me like he could force the truth out by sheer will. The air between us thickened, changed with something dangerous, not just anger, but hunger.
His hand moved from my wrist to my jaw, tilting my face toward his. "You're hiding something," he whispered.
"Everyone is," I murmured. "Even you."
He didn't like that; his grip tightened, but not enough to hurt. His breathing changed, became heavier and faster. His control was slipping, and we both knew it.
Then, he kissed me. It was hard, rough, and almost desperate, like he was trying to remind himself who was in charge. His lips crashed into mine, and for a second, I almost let him believe he was.
When he pulled back, his eyes burned. "You think I won't find out what you're hiding?"
"You can try," I whispered.
He ran his thumb across my lip. "You make me crazy."
I smiled against his touch. "That's why you keep me."
He laughed under his breath, dark and low. "Or maybe I'm keeping you to figure out what you're really after."
"Maybe I'm doing the same," I said, meeting his eyes.
The words hung between us, sharp and quiet. He stepped back, finally letting go of my wrist.
"Go to bed," he muttered. "Tomorrow, we will talk."
"Tomorrow," I said softly, "you'll still have questions."
He slept like a man who had finally let go of the world; the city outside was quiet, and the air was heavy after the storm. A bruise colored his arm, a thin cut traced his temple, and a piece of glass still shimmered in his hair, but he didn't notice.
I watched him; the rise and fall of his chest was steady, calm, and almost innocent. My fingers brushed his jaw, and it was warm, alive, and human. For a man who'd spilled so much blood, he looked too peaceful. Giovanni's name echoed in my head, soft, sharp, and unforgiving.
He shifted slightly, and his hand reached for me even in sleep, like his body remembered a need his heart didn't understand, and I almost pitied him. I used to think he was a monster, someone I should run from, but monsters don't dream with furrowed brows and restless hands.
I leaned closer, close enough to feel his breath against my skin. He wanted protection to keep me safe from the world he built with blood, but the truth was cruel and quiet.
He was the one who needed saving from me.