Chapter 5
ISABELLA
I wake up not knowing where I am.
The sheets are wrong. Too soft. Too clean. They smell like lavender and money, and for three disorienting seconds I forget everything. Then I remember. The Santoro compound. The deal. Lorenzo walking me to this room, the hallway quiet between us, the door closing behind me.
I sit up, taking inventory. Guest room. Second floor, based on the view through the window. East-facing, morning light spilling across a garden below. The chair in the corner is empty. My laptop, my phone, my entire life. All of it still in that cramped apartment I’ll probably never see again.
I came here with nothing but the clothes on my back.
My hands are steady when I check them. That’s something.
Sofia. The name surfaces like it always does, sharp and immediate. Every morning since she vanished, the same first thought. Today. Today I find her. I’m closer now. Closer than I’ve ever been.
And all it cost me was my freedom. Fair trade. If it works.
The bathroom mirror shows me what I expect. Dark circles, hollow cheeks, hair that needs washing. The faded purple at the ends looks ridiculous now, a remnant from another life. The girl who dyed her hair on a dare. The girl who thought she had time.
The shower is nicer than any I’ve used since Sofia disappeared. Hot water, actual pressure, soap that smells expensive. I stand under the spray longer than I should, letting it wash away the grime of the past seventy-two hours. When I step out, my skin is pink and my head is clearer.
Someone left clothes in the closet. Gray sweatpants, soft and clean. A white T-shirt that’s too big, the cotton carrying a faint trace of sandalwood. His.
My throat tightens. Sofia’s wearing whatever they let her have.
I pull them on anyway. Look almost human in the mirror now. Still exhausted, still too thin, but present. Ready to face whatever comes next.
The hallways are quieter than I expected. I slip out and stand still, listening. Voices drift up from somewhere below. Not arguing. Laughing.
I follow the sound down a staircase that probably cost more than my parents’ house. Polished wood, paintings worth more than my life. Wealth that whispers instead of shouts.
The kitchen is enormous and already alive with movement.
A woman stands at the stove, silver-streaked hair pinned up, stirring something that smells like heaven and chicory.
She’s talking to a younger woman at the counter, dark-haired and delicate-featured, nursing a cup of tea.
Cassia Santoro. The Don’s wife. I recognize her from the file I built.
“And I told him, I said, Dante Santoro, you can run this whole city but you cannot tell me how to organize my own closet.” The older woman laughs. “That’s my girl. You keep that one humble, cher. Lord knows he needs it.”
They haven’t noticed me yet. I could slip back upstairs. Disappear. I’m good at disappearing.
But the woman at the stove turns, and her eyes find mine like she knew I was there all along.
“Well, good mornin’, dawlin’. Come in, come in. Coffee’s fresh and I won’t take no for an answer.”
I freeze in the doorway. “I’m—”
“Isabella.” She waves me toward the counter like I’m a skittish cat she’s trying to coax closer.
“I know who you are. Renzo told us. Well.” She smiles, something knowing in it.
“He told Dante, and Dante told me, and that’s close enough to tellin’ me direct.
Sit. You look like you haven’t eaten in a week. ”
“I’m fine.”
“Mmm-hmm.” She doesn’t believe me. That’s fair. I don’t believe me either. “Sit anyway. I’m Rosa. And if you try to leave here without breakfast, we’re gonna have words.”
Cassia catches my eye and offers a small, sympathetic smile. “She means it. I learned that lesson week one.”
I sit because refusing Rosa’s hospitality draws more attention than accepting it. Rosa sets a plate in front of me. Eggs, toast, fruit, more food than I’ve eaten in days. My stomach growls loud enough to be embarrassing.
“Eat,” Rosa says. “Then we talk.”
Sofia is still out there. Still suffering. And I’m eating breakfast in a killer’s house because my body won’t stop betraying me. The first bite hits and my jaw aches with it, the way your mouth waters after going too long without real food.
I eat because I have to. Not because I deserve it.
Rosa moves around the room with practiced ease, humming something low and melodic. She slides a plate of beignets across the counter. “More coffee, dawlin’?” Already pouring.
“Please.” My voice comes out smaller than I want it to.
Cassia watches me over her tea. “You’re the hacker,” she says. Not accusatory. Just establishing facts.
“Ghost. That’s what they called me. Before.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m whatever keeps my sister alive.”
Cassia nods like that answer makes perfect sense.
Two men walk in, both dark-haired, both carrying the Santoro bone structure like a weapon.
I recognize them from my files. Nico, one of the twins, all easy charm and a grin that shows too many teeth.
Marco, the youngest, coiled tight, watching me like I’m either a threat or a puzzle.
They both clock me. Nico’s smile widens. Marco’s doesn’t.
“Ghost in the flesh.” Nico slides onto a stool. “Or should I say Isabella? Which do you prefer?”
“Whichever gets me what I need faster.”
He laughs, surprised and genuine. “I like her. Renzo’s gonna hate that.”
Marco grabs a piece of toast from the counter without sitting. “He already does. I passed him in the hall. Face like a storm cloud.”
“That’s just his face. Our brother has resting murder face. It’s a medical condition.”
“Nico.” Rosa points her spatula at him. “Leave the girl alone. She’s had a rough night.”
“I’ve had a rough few years,” I say, the words slipping free. “Last night was just the latest installment.”
The kitchen goes quiet. Every pair of eyes on me. My fingers find the edge of the counter and grip.
Stupid. These people aren’t my friends.
But Rosa just nods and sets another plate on the counter. “Eat. Both of you. And don’t you dare track mud through my kitchen, Marco Santoro, I see those boots.”
Marco looks down at his boots, then at Rosa, and deflates. “Yes, Nonna.” He goes to remove them, muttering under his breath.
Nico steals a piece of fruit from my plate, winking when I glare at him. “Fair warning,” he says, low enough that Rosa doesn’t hear. “Renzo’s not great with people. New people. Any people, actually. Don’t take it personally.”
“I haven’t taken anything personally for years.”
“Liar.” He grins, but there’s a blade underneath. “Everyone takes something personally. That’s what makes us human.”
At the sink, Rosa’s granddaughter Maria dries plates with the practiced efficiency of someone who has done it a thousand times, rolling her eyes at Nico without looking up. The bickering, the food, Rosa moving between them all like she’s herding cats she loves.
I push back from the counter. “I should get to work.”
“You should finish your food,” Rosa says, not looking up from the stove.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’re a terrible liar, cher.” Now she looks at me, dark eyes sharp and knowing. “But I won’t force you. Kitchen’s always open. You remember that.”
I nod. My mother used to say that. Kitchen’s always open. Before the pills. Before she stopped noticing whether anyone came home at all.
I’m halfway out when I clock him. Not a sound. Not a movement. Just his presence behind me, and I know who it is before I turn around.
Lorenzo Santoro stands in the doorway, watching me.
“You’re up.” Not a greeting. An observation. A data point collected.
“Observant.” I keep my voice flat. “Do you practice that, or does it come naturally?”
His expression doesn’t change. “We need to talk.”
“We’re talking now.”
“Not here.”
He turns and walks away, expecting me to follow. The arrogance of it burns through my exhaustion. For a moment I consider staying right where I am. Making him wait. Reminding him I’m not a dog he can summon.
But I need what he can give me more than I need to make a point.
Rosa catches my eye as I pass. Her expression says something I don’t have the bandwidth to decode.
Lorenzo leads me through the house without speaking. Past a formal dining room. Past a living area with furniture that costs more than most cars. Past closed rooms, their secrets kept. I track everything. Exits, windows, blind spots. Old habits.
He stops outside a door at the end of the hall and turns to face me.
“Your room is in the center wing. You can access the kitchen, the main floor common areas, and the east garden. Nowhere else.”
I stare at him. “You’re giving me rules?”
“Boundaries.” His voice is flat. “The armory is off-limits. The west wing is off-limits. Dante’s study requires permission. You don’t leave the grounds without an escort.”
“An escort.” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “I’m not a prisoner. We made a deal.”
“You’re a security risk until proven otherwise.”
“I’m the reason you have a chance at the Benedettis at all.”
“Which is why you’re still breathing.” He takes a step closer. The space between us shrinks, and I become aware of how much larger he is. How much stronger. “You made a deal. That bought you a seat at the table. It didn’t buy you my trust.”
“I don’t want your trust.” I force myself to hold his gaze. “I want your muscle. I want your resources. I want you to help me get my sister back. That’s the deal.”
“That’s the deal,” he agrees. “But you’ll follow my rules while you’re here.”
“Or what?”
He steps closer still. Close enough to see the scar bisecting his left eyebrow, the slight crook in his nose from a break that didn’t heal straight. Heat radiates off him, seeping through my borrowed clothes.
“Or I decide you’re more trouble than you’re worth.” His voice drops, rough at the edges. “And I handle you the way I handle every other threat to my family.”
He means them. It’s there in the set of his shoulders, the stillness of his body. He’s killed for smaller offenses than defiance.
But fear has never made me back down.
“You’re not going to kill me.” I don’t blink. Don’t look away. “You need my knowledge. And we both know the only way to get everything out of my head is to keep me alive and cooperating.”
“Cooperating.” He says it like he’s tasting the word, finding it bitter. “Is that what this is?”
“That’s what it will be. If you stop treating me like a prisoner and start treating me like a partner.”
“You’re not my partner.”
“No. I’m your best shot at the Benedettis. And you know it.”
His gaze drops to my mouth. Just for a second.
I square my shoulders. Force steel into my spine.
“Try again.”
A flicker in his expression. Gone too fast to identify, but it was there.
“What did you say?”
“I said try again.” I take a step forward instead of back, closing the distance he created. Now we’re inches apart and my heart is slamming against my ribs, but I refuse to let him see it. “I didn’t survive this long on my own by letting men tell me what I am. Starting now isn’t an option.”
The silence stretches. He could kill me with his bare hands. Has. I matched his knuckle scars to three closed police reports while building his file. Same hands. Different bodies.
My feet stay planted. So do his.
His hand twitches. A sudden, small movement. Like he’s fighting the urge to reach.
“The rules stand,” he says, stepping back. “Stay in the approved areas. Don’t test me.”
“I test everyone. It’s how I stay alive.”
“That’s not what’s going to keep you alive here.”
“No?”
“No.” He looks at me, and his eyes burn. Hot. Dangerous. “I am.”
Then he turns and walks away, and I’m left standing in the hallway with my pulse racing.
An hour later, a knock.
I open it.
Lorenzo stands in the hallway, expression unreadable. “Dante wants to discuss your intel. Now.”
He turns without waiting for an answer, expecting me to follow.
I do.