Chapter 6 Isabella
The ride to his penthouse moves in a muted blur, the city lights sliding across the windows like streaks of gold and white. Every shift of the car sends a dull ache through my ribs, but I force my posture straight, refusing to let the pain show more than it already has.
Nico drives with a focus that feels carved from granite, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting across his thigh, his jaw set in a hard line that hasn’t softened since he dragged me out of my apartment.
The air between us hums with something sharp and unsettled, and the longer the silence stretches, the more the night feels unreal, like a film reel that hasn’t caught up with itself.
I keep my eyes forward. I can still feel the imprint of the attacker’s grip on my arm, a phantom pressure, and every time I swallow, the throb in my cheek tightens. My hands stay clasped in my lap, knuckles pale around each other.
I shouldn’t feel safer in this car—his car.
I shouldn’t feel anything at all where Nico Mancini is concerned, but he saved me tonight.
From what, I shudder to think about. Everyone is a threat except the man who should be.
He’s dangerous, but he’s looking at me like I’m breakable.
And I hate that I want him to hold me together.
And yet, my heartbeat hasn’t stopped its frantic runaway rhythm, not just from the assault but from the moment when he broke through my door like a force of nature.
Something in me hasn’t come fully back from that.
Twice in two days he’s saved me from harm.
Yet, when he looks at me, I don’t know whether to seek sanctuary in his embrace or run as far and as fast as I can. My gut says the second one.
By the time we reach the underground garage beneath his building, my muscles feel stretched too thin, my ribs throbbing in pain. He kills the engine without a word, steps out, and circles to my door.
He doesn’t offer a hand. But he does wait.
I slide out carefully, and the moment my bag slips on my shoulder, his hand closes around the strap, lifting it clean out of my grasp with a quiet, annoyed breath.
“I can carry my own—”
“No. You can’t.” He doesn’t look at me as he says it. He just walks, the bag slung effortlessly over his shoulder.
The elevator is private and silent, the air crisp and cool.
I lean lightly against the back wall to ease the pull on my ribs, hoping he doesn’t notice.
He glances sideways, eyes flicking to the subtle shift in my breathing.
Of course he notices, but says nothing, just watches me with that intensity that makes my skin sizzle.
We step off the elevator and into a hall before he opens his door, and I step into a space that’s unexpectedly warm.
Not cozy, Nico Mancini doesn’t seem like a man who does “cozy,” but the penthouse carries a quiet depth I don’t expect: dark wood floors, stone counters, soft amber lighting. The city sprawls beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan glittering like a galaxy laid flat below.
I take a few slow, measured steps into the living room. The scent here is faint but clean, a hint of cedar and something sharper, like the lingering trace of his cologne from earlier.
There aren’t any photographs or personal clutter. No sign of a life lived except in the immaculate order of the space.
He disappears down the hall with my bag, leaving me alone long enough to take a quiet, steadying breath. The room feels too large, too still, and for a moment, the events of the night sneak up on me, the candlelight, the shadow behind me, the blow to my cheek, that voice hissing in my ear.
I brace a hand on the counter, exhaling slowly.
When Nico returns, he stops in the doorway, watching me with a gaze that feels like it weighs and catalogues every detail, from the way I’m holding myself to the slight wince I try to hide when I straighten.
“You need ice,” he says, moving past me.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“You don’t have to,” he murmurs. “You’re safe anyway.”
He opens a drawer, retrieves a cold pack, and crosses back to me. Instead of lifting it to my face, he places it in my hand, his fingers brushing mine for the briefest moment. Warm calloused skin against my trembling fingers, it sends a strange ripple through me.
“Hold it there,” he says, quieter.
I press it to my cheek, the cold biting deep, and close my eyes for a breath.
When I open them, he’s leaning on the opposite side of the island, arms folded, gaze fixed on me with unnervingly steady focus. His suit is barely rumpled, the custom Armani fitted to his muscular frame like a lover’s caress.
“What?” I ask.
“You didn’t lock your window.”
My stomach tightens. “He didn’t climb through a window. It’s four stories up, and the fire escape is on the opposite side, unless he doubles as Spiderman.”
“I saw the latch half-open when I was checking the room before Rossi got there.” His eyes narrow. “Someone could have found a way, Spiderman or not. Desperate people are resourceful.”
A shiver runs down my spine, not from cold, but from the knowledge he’s right. Not that I’d admit that to him with a gun to my head. “Do you always assume the worst possible outcome?”
“It’s why I’m alive.”
The way he says it, flat, factual, sends another unwelcome flicker of curiosity through me.
No, not unwelcome. This is who I am. I’m a truth seeker.
I lower the ice pack. “You were… close tonight,” I say, the words coming out before I fully decide to speak them.
“You were right there. I barely screamed.”
His expression doesn’t change, but something subtle tightens behind it. “I told you. I was nearby.”
“That’s not an explanation.”
“It’s the one you’re getting.”
I study him for a moment, the breadth of his shoulders, the tension bracketing his mouth, the faint smear of blood by his cuff. He looks carved from something ancient, steady and dangerous and impossible to push off balance.
Yet something about the way he’s standing feels… wound tight. “Why are you really watching me?” I ask softly.
His gaze locks onto mine, steady, unblinking, dark as a closing door. “Because you stirred up people who don’t need reasons to hurt you. Because you came after me and mine.”
“That’s not an answer either.”
He pushes off the counter, the movement too smooth, too controlled. “I don’t owe you answers.”
“You owe yourself honesty,” I say before thinking better of it.
His jaw flexes once. “Don’t start that.”
Silence stretches, thick and charged.
My cheek throbs under the cold pack, my ribs twinge every time I inhale, and exhaustion pulls at the edges of everything, but my mind won’t stop replaying the moment he burst into the room, the way he moved, the way his voice cut through the chaos like a blade.
The way relief wound through me, when I heard his voice, knowing with certainty I can’t explain that he may be a monster, but he’d never hurt me.
“You were there fast,” I murmur. “Too fast.”
He looks away, toward the city lights. “I didn’t feel like being late.”
My breath catches, a tiny trip in my chest, I hope he didn’t hear.
Before I can form a response, he continues, voice clipped again. “The doctor will be here in ten minutes.”
“Nico, that isn’t necessary.”
“It is,” he says, turning back to me. “I’m not debating this with you.”
“You can’t just dictate my life.”
“I can when someone just tried to beat you to death in your own living room.”
My pulse stutters. Everything inside me goes warm and cold at once, fear, anger, something confusing I don’t have a name for. I pace, ignoring the dizziness that swarms my vision.
His voice lowers. “Sit still.”
I do.
Not because he commands it, but because something in me simply… gives. I’m exhausted from the last two days and in pain, and though I don’t want to admit it, a little frightened by the Pandora’s Box I’ve seemingly opened.
He sees it. A faint shift crosses his expression, so subtle most people would miss it.
The knock at the door makes me jump despite how hard I try not to show it. Nico barely cuts me a glance before moving toward the door, shoulders squared, movements sharp and purposeful. “That will be the doctor.”
The doctor steps into the room, older, mid-sixties maybe, with a thick head of silver hair, warm brown eyes, and a leather medical bag that looks older than both of us combined. He gives Nico a firm nod, then turns to me with a smile so soft it almost knocks the air out of my lungs.
“This must be the young lady,” he says gently. “I’m Dr Russell.”
Before I can speak, Nico cuts in. “She’s bruised. Ribs, cheek. No loss of consciousness. She took at least two hits.”
The doctor gives him a look, something like fond annoyance. “I can gather my own notes, Nico.”
It’s the first time I hear someone talk to Nico without fear or caution. The effect is startling.
“Come,” the doctor says to me, his voice easing into a warmth that reaches beneath my tension. “Let’s move somewhere with better light. My eyes are not what they were.”
Nico’s attention snaps back to me. “I’ll show you the room.”
I follow him down a short hallway, every step pulling at the bruised muscles along my ribs. The pain pulses in a steady rhythm, but I keep quiet. Nico glances back once, eyes narrowing as if he can read every wince I try to hide.
He opens a door.
The room inside is simple but beautiful, with soft light, dark wood furniture, and a thick charcoal-gray quilt folded across a king-sized bed. Minimal but warm, inviting. The kind of space meant for rest, not for guests. It doesn’t match any spare room I’ve ever seen.
“This is yours for the night,” he says quietly.
I don’t know what to do with the soft note in his voice, so I look away. Our pattern of sniping and bickering sits easier with me, safer.
The doctor steps inside, clicking on the bedside lamp. “I’ll take over from here,” he tells Nico.