Taken

Chapter Seventeen #2

I take a steady breath in as I look down at Chiara again, her body still limp on the sofa.

Right now, my daughter is the only thing that matters to me.

“She will wake up.” I murmur to myself, more to reassure me than anything else. “My Chiara is strong.”

For Chiara, I will do whatever it takes, and I will be damned if I let anybody take her from me once again.

The tension in the room lingers as we wait for the Bratva doctor to come and assess Chiara.

And as Isaak speaks again, I find that there is an unexpected softness in his voice. His words catch me off guard.

“You know,” he begins saying as he looks down at Chiara, “I would want somebody to look out for my daughter too. I would want somebody to care for her in the way that you care for Chiara.”

I stiffen slightly, my jaw tightening.

I glance up at Isaak once again, unsure where this conversation is heading. His eyes are dark, sombre, but there is something else there; something that speaks of a deep loss, a longing that mirrors my own. It’s a vulnerability I did not expect from the Pakhan of the Bratva.

“I don’t care about this history between our families.

” He continues. “When I found Chiara here…I didn’t hesitate to call Alessandro the moment I found out.

I had to make sure she was safe, and she was well.

I couldn’t just stand by and allow her to be trapped here.

” Either Nikolai or Mikhail growls, a low sound that echoes through the room at what their father has said, but Isaak only continues.

“Your daughter deserved to be reunited with her family, and I made sure it happened.”

For a fleeting moment, I wonder if Isaak truly sees Chiara in the way that I do—a daughter, someone worth protecting at all costs. But then he pauses, and there is a distant look in his eyes, something raw.

“I hope that one day, when everything is settled, I’ll find my daughter again. I hope that one day, I can be the father she deserves. I hope that one day, my family can be whole again.”

His words strike me in a way that I am not prepared for.

I look back down at Chiara, holding onto my daughter in a way as if my life depends on it.

I think about my own family; the bond we share, the protection I have promised her, the lengths I have gone to in order to keep her safe.

But Isaak’s words feel like a heavy weight.

I feel the stirring of something deep in my chest, a pang of guilt that twists like a knife.

I know what he means.

I know the pain of losing a child—of having someone you love taken from you.

And though I want to reject the thought, the cold truth settles over me.

I wrap my fingers around Chiara’s hand, but my gaze drifts to the floor. I cannot look him in the eye after this, not when we both know the truth.

I am the reason why his daughter is no longer with him.

“I…” My voice falters, but I force the words out anyway. “I did not mean for any of this to happen. I never wanted Stella to be brutally murdered like that. I was angry, but it is not an excuse for what happened back then.”

Isaak does not say anything for a while.

Instead, he allows the silent to stretch between us.

When he does speak, his voice is softer this time, almost pained.

“I know.” He says simply. “I know you didn’t.”

I take a deep breath in, knowing I cannot look at him right now.

Choosing to focus on my daughter instead, I fight back the surge of emotions that threaten to overwhelm me. The weight of it all presses down on my chest, and I allow myself to take responsibility for all that I have done.

I am responsible for his loss.

For his daughter.

For her mother.

For Mikhail’s attempted murder.

And there is no way I can change it.

I notice Isaak still looking down at Chiara, but as he feels the weight of my gaze on him, he looks back at me. Though his eyes are still hard, they are searching mine.

I swallow hard, and for the first time in a long time, I find that my voice is quiet, almost fragile.

“Your daughter is well.” I admit in a small voice. “She is smart, she is beautiful…she is exactly how her mother was.”

The room grows tense.

Isaak stills completely, his posture becoming rigid as though the very air has shifted.

I feel either one of his sons eyes on me, and I watch as they both step a fraction forward to be closer to their father, sensing the change in the atmosphere.

Isaak’s gaze narrows in my direction, but he does not say anything.

He simply stares at me, as though he is waiting for something, perhaps some more from me to explain this all.

“You have met my daughter?”

He asks me, his voice low and controlled, each of his words sounding like a warning.

I nod my head, keeping my eyes locked on his as my fingers gently stroke my daughter’s soft hand.

“Yes.” I reply, my voice steady despite the storm that is brewing in my chest. “She and my daughter attend the same school. They knew each other in passing, and Gabriel and I still keep in touch.”

I see the way his eyes darken further, the way his fingers curl into fists on either side of his body at the mention of his name; the man who murdered his lover.

Isaak continues watching me, as do his sons, as the silence becomes suffocating.

He inhales sharply, as though to steady himself, with his hands still clenched at his sides.

His eyes flicker over to his sons. Together, the twins move in closer, as if to protect their father, understanding just how fragile this moment is.

When Isaak turns to me once again, his words are barely a rasp.

“My daughter is in England? She is safe there?”

His question is almost a plea, a fragile thread of hope that is woven into his words, but there is also something beneath it.

An unspoken fear, a longing that he tries to keep buried, but cannot completely mask.

I can see it. I can hear it in his voice.

I nod, my heart tightening as I raise Chiara’s limp hand to press a kiss to my daughter’s knuckles.

This is all I can give him—this small reassurance that his daughter is well—and that she is safe.

“She is.”

I confirm, my voice steady, but not without a hint of sorrow for all of this which has affected our children.

There is a shift in his eyes, a small flicker of relief as he exhales a long breath, one which seems to carry the weight of all these years of loss, of uncertainty.

Then his gaze moves to Alessandro, and I see the obvious tension in his face as his eyes narrow slightly in the Don’s direction.

I do not need to be told to understand what is happening here.

It is an unspoken language of men; of power, and of desire, of alliances, both new, and old.

I am not a fool. And neither is Isaak.

Gabriel has told me enough.

Stories of the Don flying into London, visiting him whenever he is in the city. The Don has been asking around, showing curiosity in Gabriel’s family.

Gabriel is a stupid man if he thinks that it is a good thing for the Don to show him any interest.

He is a stupid if he thinks this will allow him to return to the famiglia.

To even go as far as offering his only daughter to the Don…

I can scoff at that ridiculous plan.

The fact that the Don has allowed Gabriel and I to remain breathing after everything we have done is mercy.

To ask for anything more—to expect anything more—that is pure foolishness.

I notice the look in the Don’s eyes, the way his sole focus is on this conversation purely because of the mention of Isaak’s daughter. I see it clearly, the way he holds himself proudly, the way he does not hide his interest.

Without missing a beat, I look away.

I cannot help myself.

As grateful as I am for being granted the chance to continue living my life, to care for both my children, and continue being a father in their lives, I would never be able to give him that.

Not my daughter.

Never my daughter.

Isaak can though.

He recognises this unspoken tension between the Don and myself, the things that I owe him for allowing me to keep on breathing.

His voice is rough as he mutters something under his breath in Russian, as though he is coming to terms with this.

“I may be old.” Isaak says, his tone laced with bitterness, but something else is there too. “But I’m still a man, and I know that when a man like Alessandro wants a woman like my daughter, he’ll do everything he can until he has her.”

Pleased with Isaak’s words, the Don hums, the faintest of smiles stretched along his lips.

The room soon falls quiet after that.

Even the twins seem to understand the weight of their father’s words.

The air becomes thick with unsaid words, with regrets of the past, and expectations of the future.

I hold Chiara’s hand tighter, and for a moment, all I can think of is her safety, and her happiness—things that should have always been, and things that I will make sure stay that way, no matter what.

I will not let anybody take that from her.

Not again.

It seems like we are all holding our breaths as the Don straightens. The change in the atmosphere is immediate as his gaze sweeps over the room, sharp and deliberate. There is an edge to his presence, a command that seems to vibrate in the air around him.

His eyes move between mine and Isaak’s, and I feel the weight of his words before they are even uttered.

“Now that you know where I stand,” the Don says. “Know this: I will marry your daughter, and I will make her my wife, Isaak.”

My heart skips a beat at his words, and I see that Isaak has the same reaction too.

But it is not just him—it is his sons too. There is a flicker of disbelief in their eyes, hearing the Don speaking so freely about their sister like this, like she is nothing but a pawn in this complicated game of ours.

This is no small declaration.

The Don is not simply talking about the woman he desires.

He is making a statement.

A promise.

A challenge.

“This alliance between us will become a relationship. I don’t want to hear anything else about Italians or Russians, or this history we all share, unless there is more good news to come, understand? A wedding, maybe?”

The last part of his words is directed at the twins.

It hits me like a blow to the stomach.

Their jaws are clenched, the muscles in their necks strained as they fight to maintain composure. I see the conflict clearly in their eyes, the disbelief, and the determination there too.

“Chiara is ours!” Mikhail growls. “She is everything to us.”

The Don does not so much as flinch.

I look away, unable to meet his gaze. A knot forms in my stomach, because I know exactly what he is alluding to. He is not just talking about a marriage of convenience, but something more, something deeper. And the implications of it weigh heavy on my chest.

Glancing down at Chiara, I swallow hard, pressing the back of my hand to her cheek. Her face is flushed, her skin feels a little clammy too, but she is still breathing.

That is all that matters.

I hope she will wake up soon—God knows when that doctor will be here to check in on my daughter—and I hope I will have her in my arms once more.

Stroking her hair gently, I feel the tightness in my chest easing a little. The deep ache still remains for the life she has endured. She has been through so much already, and I can only hope that despite everything, my daughter will be able to find happiness one day.

But I cannot shake the fear that things will never be the same again.

The moment has shifted.

And there’s no going back now.

“Isaak.” I say in a quiet voice. “Let Chiara wake up first before we make any other decisions.”

He does not reply at first.

He just stands there, assessing the scene before him. His expression is unreadable, and I can sense his internal struggle.

There is a fire in him, a drive that I can respect, but I also know that he is troubled by everything that has happened tonight; what has been revealed, and what the Don has just promised.

Isaak’s gaze softens slightly as he looks down at Chiara, a look that is unmistakably fatherly.

“Will will figure this out in time, Francesco. For now, we will let her rest.”

I take heavy breaths, not knowing what the future holds for us all.

I do not know what this will all lead to, but at this moment, I am grateful that Chiara is here with me, breathing.

Any maybe, just maybe, there is hope for us after all.