Chapter 8 Isabella
I wake to pain before I wake to light. A tight, mean ache wraps around my ribs, blooming deeper when I inhale too sharply.
My cheek throbs in a slow pulse, like a warning drum under my skin.
For a second, I forget where I am; the ceiling isn’t mine, the bedding smells faintly of cedar and something clean and expensive, and everything is too still, too quiet.
Then memory rushes back in; the shove, the floor, the fist, the kick, the warning. Nico breaking down my door like the world offended him personally.
I blink and turn my head. Two pills and a glass of water sit on the bedside table. Not the kind the doctor gave me last night, these are different, placed neatly, like someone knew exactly when I’d wake up hurting.
Like someone had already been here.
My stomach knots. Not with fear. With… something else.
I push the blanket away and sit up slowly, wincing as my side protests. My hand drifts to the pills again. They feel oddly intimate in a way I’m not prepared to unpack.
Nico Mancini may be gruff and bossy and infuriating, but he’s not careless. He does nothing halfway. If he left these here, it’s because he checked on me. Probably more than once.
And why that sends an embarrassing warmth through my chest, I have no idea. Maybe it’s the pain meds still lingering in my system. Maybe it’s shock and trauma doing weird things.
Or maybe it’s the way he looked at me last night—furious and gentle all at once, like he wanted to strangle the man who hurt me and maybe strangle me a little too for getting hurt in the first place.
I take the pills, quietly, hoping the ache in my ribs loosens before I have to face him.
Because I need to go home.
This… whatever this is, his penthouse, his watchful silence, his hot-cold annoyance laced with reluctant kindness, it’s messing with my head.
I need distance to think straight. I need my own things around me.
My happy place with Christmas lights and joy.
This room is nice, but it lacks heart, and I need that.
The floor is warm beneath my feet as I stand.
Heated flooring, that I do enjoy. Moving slowly, the stiffness sharp but manageable, I try and stretch a little.
My phone sits on the dresser where I dropped it last night.
Screen cracked, but still working, thank goodness.
I unlock it and swipe through missed notifications and see there’s nothing urgent.
It rings in my hand.
My heart jumps into my throat at the suddenness of it. I answer quickly when I see the caller ID.
“Mrs. Patel? Are you okay?”
Her voice is tight, breathless. “Isabella, dear, the building…your apartment… It’s the top floors. I don’t know how it started, but the alarms wouldn’t stop, and…”
Ice spills through me. “What happened?”
“There’s a fire. Half the hallway on your level is gone. The firefighters won’t let anyone in yet, and they said several units have smoke damage and… and I don’t know which ones. But I was so worried you were inside. I made the firefighters check twice.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Patel, I was at a friend’s.” Because what else can I say without explaining this nightmare and terrifying my elderly neighbor to death?
“That’s okay, sweetheart. As long as you’re safe.”
Safe! Am I safe? My stomach drops. “Is my… my place?”
“I don’t know yet, sweet girl. I’m so sorry. I thought you should know.”
The world tilts for a moment. My apartment. My things. My photos. My safety.
Gone? Damaged? Burned?
I swallow hard. “Thank you for calling. Are you safe?”
“Yes, yes. I’m downstairs with some of the other tenants. Just… just be careful.”
“I will.”
The call ends.
I stand there for one long, stunned heartbeat. Then my body moves before my brain catches up, adrenaline throttling the pain. I need to go. I need to see it.
I push out of the bedroom and into the hallway, breath tight, heart hammering. Each step sends a pulse of pain through my ribs, but adrenaline carries me forward.
The penthouse is quiet, too quiet, but warm autumn sunlight pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the space gold. I follow the faint sound of movement into the kitchen and Nico is already there.
Fully dressed in dark slacks and a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. Coffee mug in hand. Hair slightly damp, like he showered not long ago. His eyes lift to mine instantly, sharp and assessing.
Of course he’s ready for a board meeting at seven a.m. on a Sunday. Of course he looks carved from marble, while I look like I lost a fight with gravity and a Russian thug. I wonder if the man ever dresses down or relaxes fully, and can’t imagine it.
He studies me for a beat too long, jaw tight, his eyes running over me like a caress before he steps toward me. “What’s wrong?” he says, reading my inner turmoil.
I grip the doorway to brace myself, the words bursting out before he can pull whatever bossy, controlling line he has loaded. “My building is on fire.”
His mug stops halfway to his mouth.
His expression goes dark, dark in that quiet, dangerous way that makes the air feel heavier, like gravity shifts around him instead of the other way around. The mug lowers slowly, controlled, deliberate, the way a man puts down a weapon before picking up a bigger one.
“What do you mean, your building is on fire?” he asks, voice low.
“Mrs. Patel, my neighbor, just called,” I say, words tumbling out too fast. “There was a fire on my floor. Half the hallway outside my apartment is gone. She said gone, and they don’t know which units are damaged or if mine…
” My voice breaks. Just a little. Just enough that shame tightens my throat. “I need to go see it.”
Something flickers in his eyes, anger, but I feel no fear, because it’s not directed at me, but at the situation, at the universe, at whoever keeps ripping pieces of my life apart bit by bit, and thrusting me into his sphere.
He steps closer, and I feel it before I see it, the way the air shifts, the way he doesn’t touch me, but it feels like he might. Like I want him to. I know he could take all the weight of this, and, God, I want to let him, if only for a minute.
“No,” he says.
The refusal hits like a slap of cold water. “No? You can’t tell me no. It’s my home.”
“Not anymore.”
My stomach drops. “Don’t say that.”
“I’m stating the truth.” His voice stays infuriatingly calm as he takes another step toward me.
“You’re not going anywhere near that building.
If the fire didn’t cause the damage, whoever sent that bastard last night might have.
And until I know who, you’re not stepping within ten blocks of that place. ”
Heat surges through me, anger, fear, all of it tangled. “Nico, I need to see what’s left! I need to know if everything is….gone.”
He shakes his head as if his word is law. “It’s too dangerous.”
“Fine. I’ll call a rideshare.”
A growl escapes his throat. “Why do you have to be so infuriating?”
I shrug. “It comes naturally.”
He mutters something under his breath I don’t catch but I get the drift. He’s pissed, but I won’t back down on this. If he won’t take me, I’ll find a way to get there on my own.
Images of all of my precious memories burned to cinder clog my throat, stealing my fire. “Please? I need this.”
Nico’s gaze catches mine before it drops slowly over me. Like a lover’s touch. “What you need is to put some damn clothes on.”
And then….
Oh. Oh, God. I look down and gasp. If someone walked in right now, they’d think we were lovers. And the worst part is, I don’t think either of us would correct them.
I’m standing in the doorway wearing nothing but a threadbare T-shirt and panties. Bare legs, hard nipples. Bruised cheek. Hair a disaster.
No wonder he looked at me like he did. No wonder his jaw clenched like he was fighting something tooth and nail.
Warmth rushes through me, a flush blooming fast and hot across my cheeks. “I…um…I wasn’t really thinking about clothes,” I mutter, folding my arms instinctively, not that crossing them does anything except press the shirt tighter against my sensitive breasts.
His throat works once, a sharp flex.
He drags his eyes back up, slow, controlled, disciplined in a way that somehow makes it worse.
“Go get dressed,” he says, voice rougher than before, like he’s dragging the words over gravel. “Now.”
My breath stutters. “Does that mean you’re taking me?”
“It means you’re not getting into a rideshare with bruised ribs and no sense of self-preservation.” His jaw clenches. “I’m driving you. But put on clothes before I change my mind and do something we’ll both regret.”
Despite everything, my fear, the fire, the ache in my ribs, I feel something spark low in my belly. Something inconvenient. Something dangerous.
I turn quickly to hide the blush burning up my neck, perfectly aware I’m now flashing him my ass. “Fine. I’ll be ready in two minutes.”
“Make it one,” he mutters behind me.
I hurry back to the guest room, pulling on jeans that tug uncomfortably against my bruises and a sweater thick enough to make me feel less exposed.
My hands shake the entire time, fear, adrenaline, grief, maybe a little of the aftershock from the way Nico looked at me like he wasn’t sure whether to shield me or drag me straight back to bed.
When I open the door again, he’s waiting exactly where I left him.
Coffee mug on the counter.
Keys in hand.
Expression carved from stone.
He studies me again, top to bottom, this time with a different kind of intensity. Less heat. More assessment. Protection layered with barely controlled irritation.
“Let’s go,” he says, voice low.
Something inside me softens unexpectedly, something small and breakable, because even in his irritation, even wrapped in anger and command, he’s here.
He came running last night.
He stayed through the night.
He left pills by my bed.
And now he’s taking me to see what’s left of my life.
I follow him to the elevator, pain humming beneath my ribs, heart too loud in my ears.
His hand hovers near my lower back.
Not touching.
Just there.
Close enough that I feel the warmth of it.
Close enough that, for one dangerous moment, it feels like safety.
And I don’t know what scares me more, the fire that destroyed my home or the man trying so hard not to touch me as he leads me into the morning light.