Chapter Nineteen
Isabella’s POV
I heard them before I saw them. Their voices were low and sharp, the kind you only use when the topic couldn’t leave the room. I stopped outside the door and listened. Emilia and Liza, and my chest tightened.
"...he did it," Liza was saying. "Marco walked. He took the deal. He sold her again."
Emilia's voice was softer, almost breaking. "Liza, don't–"
My feet moved before my head did. I pushed the door open, and the room went quiet like someone had cut off the sound.
Both of them looked up. I must have looked like a wreck, my hair was still wet from the shower, mascara half gone where I'd rubbed my eyes earlier, my skin was still cold from the night.
"What's happened?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
Liza didn't bother with softness. She stood, crossing her arms. "He left last night in a private plane. He's gone to Italy. He's looking for protection." Her words were business-like, the way someone signed a contract. "He offered you as the price."
The world narrowed to those words. For a second, I thought I'd misheard. I looked at Emilia, hoping she would say no, no, that's not true. But her face was set, and she looked away.
"He did it again," I said, the whisper breaking. "My father... he sold me again."
I felt something in me split open all at once.
It started as a tremor in my hands and then became a sob that ripped through me.
I didn't try to stop it. It was ugly, it was everything I'd been holding for months and years.
All the nights I'd swallowed my fears, all the times I'd smiled when my stomach wanted to turn. It came out loud and raw and shameful.
Emilia moved like she always moved, warm and fast. She wrapped her arms around me before I could think. "Izzy," she said, in a thick voice. "Shh. It's okay. It's okay. You're not what he made you."
I let her hold me. Her heartbeat was steady under my ear. It grounded me. "He did this," I kept saying into her shoulder. "He did this to me."
Liza watched with a cold smile in the corners of her mouth. When I pulled away, wiping at my eyes with the back of my hand, she stepped forward.
"Stop," she said, plain and sharp. "Stop crying. This is the moment you stop being his victim."
I stared at her. "What do you mean?"
She leaned in like she was offering me a weapon. "If your father sells you, sell your heart. Make Mikhail your weapon. Use him, make him bleed for you."
Her words hit harder than the sobs. They were cruel, they were cold, but there was a truth under the cruelty.
Emilia's hand went to my shoulder. "Liza–"
"No," Liza snapped. "She needs to hear this."
I felt fuzzy. The room seemed to tilt, and for a second, I felt tired of both of them. Emilia for her comfort and Liza for her sharpness. I hated my father more than I had words for.
Liza watched me, waiting for a reaction. I took a breath and let the weight of everything settle in my bones. My face was wet, my eyes were red, and I looked at my reflection in the cracked mirror across the room.
"Maybe I already am," I whispered to myself, the sound was small and fierce. The words felt like a promise and a lie at the same time.
**********
The night was too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you think too much. I sat on the couch with an open bottle of whiskey, staring at the city lights through the glass wall. The world outside looked peaceful, but inside me was a storm I couldn't stop.
Mikhail's voice kept echoing in my head.
"I didn't kill Giovanni. Your father did.”
I didn't know what to believe anymore. My father, the man who once kissed my forehead and told me I was his princess, had sold me like a bargaining chip. And Mikhail, the man I was supposed to hate, said it like a confession, not an excuse. I hated the part of me that almost believed him.
I took another drink, the burn tracing fire down my throat. My eyes were sore, my body was tired. I didn't even hear him come in until he spoke.
"You shouldn't drink alone."
His voice was low and steady, dangerous in its calm. I turned my head slowly, and he stood by the doorway, no tie, his sleeves rolled up, watching me like he was trying to decide if I was a threat or a wound.
I smirked faintly. "You shouldn't care."
He walked in anyway; each step was too deliberate. "You think I don't?"
"I think you don't know how." I lifted the bottle and gestured toward him. "Want to try it? Maybe it'll help you feel something for once."
He ignored the offer and sat across from me instead.
His silence pressed harder than any words.
I looked at him, really looked at the man who'd burned cities, broken bones, and still somehow looked like control itself.
I wanted to hate him, but I couldn't even tell where the hate ended, and the ache began.
"You said my father did it," I said quietly. "You said he sold out Giovanni."
He didn't look away. "I don't say things I can't prove."
I swallowed, feeling the tears clawing again. "He's a coward," I whispered. The words came out before I could stop them. "My father's a coward."
Something flickered in his face, surprise, or maybe pity. I hated both.
He leaned forward slightly and said in a rough voice. "You don't have to carry his sins."
I laughed bitterly. "I already am, Mikhail. Every scar, every lie, and every time I pretended I wasn't breaking. And now, it's you."
His jaw clenched, and his hand tightened on his knee. He wanted to reach for me, I could see it as his breath caught. But he didn't move.
I took another sip and leaned forward. "Maybe I should thank you," I said in a low and sharp voice. "You taught me how to fight without feeling."
He looked at me with his dark eyes, unreadable. "And did you learn?"
I gave a faintly cold smile. "Maybe."
Then I leaned closer until I could feel his breath on my lips. My words were soft but venomous.
"And maybe," I whispered, "I'll teach you what it feels like to be destroyed from the inside."
The silence between us cracked like glass; neither of us looked away.
The room felt heavy. Not with silence but with everything we weren't saying.
Mikhail stood by the door, with his shirt half unbuttoned, his eyes locked on me.
I stood by the window, the moonlight brushing my bare shoulders.
Neither of us moved, but the air between us did, and it was sharp, trembling, and dangerous.
"You should leave," I said quietly.
He didn't. "You don't mean that."
I gave a soft, bitter laugh. "You think you know what I mean?"
"I know what you want," he said in a low voice.
"Do you?" I turned slowly, meeting his eyes. "Because I don't even know anymore."
He took a step closer. Then another until his hand lifted, hesitantly brushing a loose strand of hair from my cheek. His touch was too gentle. It made me angry.
"Don't," I whispered, even as I leaned in.
"Tell me to stop," he said, his breath warm against my skin.
But I didn't. No, I couldn't. When his lips met mine, the world tilted. Every wall I'd built started to crack. I told myself this was control that I was the one leading, the one choosing.
So, I pushed him back onto the bed. My fingers traced his jaw, and my lips brushed his ear. "I trust you," I whispered.
He closed his eyes, and his breath was unsteady. "Don't say things you don't mean."
"I love you," I said instead, my voice sounded foreign and too soft.
He froze, and for a second, he looked like he wanted to fight it, but then he whispered it back. "I love you too."
And it broke something inside me. He touched me like I was glass. Careful and afraid to hurt me. But I moved against him like fire, burning everything between us. It wasn't love, not the kind that healed. It was hunger, fury, and desperation.
Every kiss felt like a lie I wanted to believe. Every breath between us was a dare, and when it was over, the storm faded into stillness. The city outside kept moving, but inside, time stopped.
Mikhail fell asleep beside me, his hand still tangled in the sheets, his chest rising and falling in a calm rhythm.
I lay there, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. My heart wouldn't quiet. The words I love you still echoed in my head. His voice broke on them, real in a way that scared me.
I told myself it was part of the plan, that this was a strategy. That I was still the one in control. But when I turned to look at him, peacefully unaware, a single tear slipped down my cheek. I didn't know if it was guilt or confusion or something worse.
I got out of bed, slowly wrapping the robe around my body. My feet were silent on the floor as I moved toward the door.
I looked back, one last time. "You shouldn't have told me you loved me," I whispered.
He didn't hear it, but I did. And it hurt more than I expected. The night was too quiet. It was the kind of quiet that made every sound feel like a secret.
I moved barefoot through the penthouse, my robe brushing against my legs. Mikhail's breathing came softly from the bedroom, deep, steady, and unaware. I hesitated at the door before turning away and heading down the hall.
My heart wouldn't stop pounding, and I didn't even know what I was looking for. Maybe answers or proof that I wasn't losing my mind.
The office smelled faintly of smoke and leather. The city lights spilled through the glass wall, painting everything in silver and shadow. Papers were scattered across the desk, and Mikhail's jacket was slung over the chair.
I took a deep breath and started searching. Drawers opened and shut. Files, documents, maps, and names. My fingers shook, but I kept going.
Then, I saw it. A folder marked GIOVANNI MORETTI.
My stomach dropped, and I pulled it out slowly, as if it might burn me. Inside were photos of Giovanni's car, the night he died. Bank records, messages between Marco and an Italian contact. Payments made, dates, all pointing to one truth.
My throat closed. "No..." I whispered. "No, it can't be."
Mikhail hadn't lied. The papers slipped to the floor, and my knees felt weak. I gripped the desk, breathing hard.
"Oh God, what have I done?" I whispered.
Tears blurred the words on the page. All this time, I had hated Mikhail, blaming him for Giovanni's death while my own father was the monster behind it.
I wanted to scream, to break something, to undo everything. I wiped my face, ready to leave before Mikhail woke up. But then something else caught my eye. Another folder, black and unmarked except for one name written across it in small white letters. ISABELLA MORETTI.
My fingers hesitated before I opened it. Inside were photocopies. Dozens of them were of me in a Paris café, me walking to work, and me in a bookstore, smiling at a stranger. Dates scribbled at the corners, all from over a year ago.
Mikhail hadn't just met me on Bratva grounds. He had been following me long before. He was studying me, memorizing my life like a hunter tracing his prey. The betrayal twisted inside me, sharp and raw.
My father had sold me, and my lover had stalked me. I stood there in the dark, with two folders clutched to my chest. One filled with my father's betrayal and the other with Mikhail's obsession.
Outside, the city lights kept shining in the cold. My voice came out broken, barely a whisper. "Everyone I've tried to trust has made me their prey.”