Chapter 10 #2
"The two we brought in only admitted they got paid to do a job." Feodor slid a photo toward me. "They never saw who hired them. The middleman was found dead two hours ago in a motel in Brooklyn."
I glanced at the picture. A bullet to the back of the skull. No signs of a struggle in the room. Whoever it was, they hadn't planned on leaving anything behind that could point back at them.
"Keep digging into the money," I said.
Feodor noted it, then put a second folder in front of me.
"One more thing. We found Isabella."
My hand stopped in midair.
"Where?"
"Europe."
He opened the folder. The first page was an exit record, timestamped the night she'd left New York. The ticket had been paid from her own account. She'd traveled alone. No sign of coercion. No trace of anyone forcing her.
Behind that were photos pulled from security footage and other people's social accounts.
I flipped one over. Isabella wore a silver mini dress, standing in the center of a private bar's dance floor. She smiled brightly, surrounded by half-naked men and women, and one guy's hand rested on her waist like he belonged there.
The rest were more of the same. She was drinking, partying, pressed close to strangers. The only thing that didn't change was her smile.
She didn't look like a woman driven out of town by her little sister. There wasn't a hint of pain on her face.
"When were these taken?" I asked.
"The last few nights." Feodor paused. "She'd been there almost two weeks. She switched hotels twice. She went to six parties. Her spending was... high. Every day."
I stared at the photos.
After Isabella left, I'd imagined a hundred versions of what her life looked like.
Maybe she'd been hiding alone in some unfamiliar city, wrecked by what happened between me and Elena that night. Maybe she'd been too afraid to come back to New York, worried about the families and the media. Maybe she'd been waiting for me to find her, to explain.
That was why I'd poured all my rage into Elena. I'd decided Elena ruined everything.
But Isabella looked light and free in those pictures. She drank. She danced. She let strange men touch her like New York was already a closed chapter.
"Did she run into any trouble?" I asked.
"Not so far," Feodor said. "Honestly, she looked like she was doing pretty damn well."
I lifted my gaze to him.
"I'm just stating facts," he added.
"Get out."
Feodor didn't argue. He left the room.
When the door shut, I flipped through the photos again.
Isabella was safe. Happy. Unhurt. I should've felt relieved. Instead, a dull, sick irritation sat in my chest like I'd been played. Why hadn't she contacted me? If she'd really left because Elena forced her out, why didn't she look forced at all?
Maybe Elena had told the truth. Maybe she hadn't set anything up to drive Isabella away. Maybe Elena and I were the ones left behind, standing in the wreckage.
I'd spent more than a decade controlling business in this city. I could spot a rat from a blurry money trail. I could tell where a bullet came from before the echo died.
But I might've been wrong about Isabella from the start.
That thought pissed me off more than the ambush.
I forced myself through the rest of the paperwork. Route changes. Dock ledgers. Next month's volume. Every detail had to be exact. I never allowed work to slip out of my grip, but tonight I read the same line of numbers three times and still didn't absorb it.
Elena's face, wet with tears, saying, That isn't fair, wouldn't leave me alone.
When I got back to the manor, it was past midnight.
Only a few wall lamps stayed on in the hall. After my mother died, I'd gotten used to the emptiness. No matter how late I came back, the only thing waiting was a night servant and silence. But the moment the front door opened, a warm scent drifted toward me.
Tomatoes, butter, fresh basil crushed between fingers.
I took off my coat and followed it.
The dining room lights were on. Elena stood by the long table, setting down the last plate. She'd changed out of the dress and wore a loose, simple gown, her hair pulled back without fuss.
When she saw me, she paused.
"You're back."
It sounded too natural, like we'd lived this way for years.
I stood in the doorway and took in the spread: braised beef in tomato, toasted bread, vegetables, handmade pasta.
"You made all this?"
"Most of it." She tucked her hands behind her back. "Olga helped me find the ingredients. The chef showed me how to work the oven. After that I sent them to bed."
I walked up and caught the hand she tried to hide. A small, fresh red mark burned on her index finger.
"You burned yourself."
"I barely touched the edge of a pan." She tried to pull away. I didn't let her.
"If you couldn't do it, you shouldn't have pushed it."
That stubborn streak of hers drove me insane sometimes.
"I already put ointment on it." She tried to change the subject, looking a little awkward. "Feodor told me you'd be back. I figured you hadn't eaten much today, so I made this. But it might not be your kind of food."
"Whether it is my kind of food is for the person eating it to decide." I let go and pulled out a chair.
She blinked, then sat across from me.
I took a bite of the braised beef. It wasn't perfect. The meat ran a little tough. By my usual standards, it didn't come close.
And I still wanted a second bite.
"Well?" she asked.
Those hazel eyes watched me like she was braced for a verdict.
"It's edible."
Her lips pressed together. "That's probably the highest praise you're capable of."
I lifted my wineglass, hiding the smile that almost reached my mouth.
"Where did you learn?"
"When I was little, I spent a lot of time in the kitchen." She twirled pasta onto her fork. "I didn't need to show up for the formal dinners, so the cook would save some food for me. I watched enough. Eventually I picked up a few things."
She said it calmly, like it didn't matter.
It punched straight through my appetite.
At the Rossi family parties, Isabella always stood beside Seamus, soaking up praise like she was born for it. Elena stayed in the corners, quiet enough people forgot she was a Rossi too.
"If you want something, you tell the chef," I said. "From now on."
We ate in silence for a while. Every so often she added food to my plate. When my glass ran low, she pushed water toward me.
That kind of small care felt unfamiliar.
My father never waited for my mother to eat. He could stay gone for weeks, and when he came back, the first thing he did was tear apart anything that didn't suit him. After my mother got sick, the dining room felt like a boardroom.
I'd thought that was what a home was supposed to be.
Quiet. Cold. Controlled.
But right then, steam still lifted off a pot of stew that wasn't perfect. Elena sat across from me, and for the first time in years, the house I'd lived in felt like it had a pulse.
Isabella was in some far-off bar, looking like she'd already thrown the past away.
Elena stayed here.
She'd been forced to marry me. I'd misunderstood her and humiliated her again and again. And she still left a light on, still cooked something warm for me.
Maybe I could do what Isabella did. Maybe I could let the past go, and try to accept the woman sitting in front of me.