Chapter 9 Nico
The elevator doors slide shut and the city starts to rise around us, steel and glass falling away beneath our feet.
Isabella stands beside me, pressed into the corner like she’s holding herself together by leaning on the wall.
Her arms are wrapped around her middle, not quite hugging herself, one hand curved protectively over her ribs.
Her reflection in the mirrored panel looks pale and drawn, her bruised cheek an ugly splash of color against too-soft skin.
I should be watching the floor numbers. Instead, I watch that reflection.
She’s quiet. Too quiet for Isabella Romano. No barbed comments, no pushback, just the kind of silence that feels like it’s vibrating from the inside out.
“You took the pills I left,” I say, more to break that silence than anything.
Her gaze flicks to mine in the glass. “You mean the mysterious bedside drugs? Very trusting of me, I know.”
“They were prescription-strength anti-inflammatories.” I shove my hands into my pockets to resist the urge to adjust her scarf so it covers more of her throat. “I don’t poison people I plan on interrogating.”
Her mouth tips the smallest fraction. “Good to know.”
The elevator chimes and the doors open into the lobby. Security nods as we pass, their eyes flicking over Isabella with the kind of professional curiosity that has my shoulders tightening. I give them a look that says don’t even think about it. Their gazes snap back to neutral.
Outside, the air is knife-edge cold, the kind that cuts through suit fabric and lungs.
Isabella shivers once, quick, almost invisible.
I guide her toward the car; we’re taking my SUV today as it will be easier for her to get into.
Her steps are careful, each one sending a tiny ripple of strain across her features.
I open the passenger door for her. She hesitates for half a heartbeat, then lowers herself in, teeth sinking into her bottom lip as her ribs protest.
“Slowly,” I say quietly.
“I’m trying.” Her breath hitches. “My body disagrees.”
I wait until she’s settled, then close the door and circle around to the driver’s side. By the time I slide behind the wheel, the car is already warm, engine purring smoothly. I pull into traffic with more gentleness than usual, every start and stop measured.
She stares straight ahead at first, fingers twisted in the hem of her sweater. I can see a faint tremor in her hands. Not enough to be obvious, but enough that it crawls under my skin.
“You don’t have to be strong in front of me,” I say, surprising both of us.
She turns her head slowly. “You don’t exactly inspire emotional vulnerability.”
“Good.” I keep my eyes on the road. “I’m not your therapist.”
“But you left pills by my bed.” Her voice is soft, almost curious. “That’s kind of therapist-adjacent.”
My grip tightens around the wheel. I should never have left those damn pills; it was too telling. “Pain stops people from thinking clearly. I need you thinking clearly.”
“For your answers,” she says.
“For your safety,” I correct before I can stop myself.
The words hang between us in the quiet car, louder than they should be.
She looks at me for a long moment, like she’s turning that answer over and examining it from every angle. Then she faces forward again, saying nothing, which somehow feels worse than when she argues.
We hit a slower stretch of traffic near her neighborhood.
Smoke smears the sky ahead of us, not thick enough to be catastrophic but heavy enough to sting the nose when I crack the window.
The closer we get, the more the air fills with the smell of burnt plastic and soaked drywall, the aftermath of a fire rather than the heat of it.
Isabella’s breath changes. Shorter. Sharper. Her fingers loosen from her sweater and close around the strap of her bag instead, knuckles whitening.
“You sure you want to see this today?” I ask.
“Would it be easier tomorrow?” Her laugh sounds thin. “Next week? Next year?”
I don’t answer because she’s right.
We turn the last corner, and the scene unfolds in front of us.
Her building looks like every other midrange Manhattan block at first glance—brick, iron balconies, a deli on the corner—but the closer we get, the more the damage appears.
Yellow tape flutters along the front steps like warning flags.
A couple of top-floor windows are black rings of soot, glass blown out, curtains hanging in charred ribbons.
The entire upper right side of the building is streaked with smoke, like fingers clawing up the wall.
Fire trucks are still parked along the curb, lights spinning lazily now instead of frantically.
A few firefighters move in and out of the entrance, gear half-off, helmets dangling from one hand.
Neighbors cluster in groups on the sidewalk, wrapped in blankets, cups of coffee in their hands.
The smell of burnt insulation and wet ash sits in the air like a ghost.
I kill the engine but don’t move to get out yet. “We go as far as the tape,” I tell her. “If they won’t let you inside, you listen. If anyone looks at you wrong, you stand behind me. Understood?”
She nods, jaw clenched, throat working once.
We step out into the cold. The noise hits in pieces—the squawk of radios, the low murmur of voices, a car horn somewhere farther down the block.
Isabella’s neighbors glance our way, recognition flickering in some of their eyes.
Most of them look shell-shocked, clothes thrown on haphazardly, faces lined with tired worry.
“Isabella!” a voice calls.
An older woman wrapped in a bulky cardigan breaks from the cluster near the deli and hurries toward us, slippers slapping the pavement. Mrs. Patel, from the phone call. Isabella’s posture softens, just a fraction.
“Mrs. Patel,” she breathes, moving forward. I track her automatically, staying half a step behind and to the side. Close enough that if her knees buckle, I can catch her. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” The older woman reaches for Isabella’s hands, clutching them in both of hers. Her gaze skims Isabella’s face and widens. “Oh, my girl. What happened to you?”
“Wrong place, wrong time.” Isabella tries for lightness, but it fractures at the edges. “Are you sure you’re all right? Anyone hurt?”
“Some smoke inhalation, but no deaths, thanks to God.” Mrs. Patel squeezes her fingers.
“The fire started at the far end of the corridor. They think electrical, but they aren’t sure yet.
Your place…” She trails off, glancing toward the firefighters near the entrance, uncertainty knitting her brows.
“They will not let us up yet. Too much damage, too much water. They say it is not safe.”
The words hit Isabella like a physical blow. I see the way her shoulders dip, her breath stutters. I step in, just half an inch, so she can lean on me if she needs to. She doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t.
“Thank you for calling me,” Isabella says, forcing steadiness into her voice. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
Mrs. Patel nods, then gives me a quick, evaluating look, her gaze taking in the suit, the expression, the way I’m standing a little too close to her neighbor.
“And this is…?” she asks.
Isabella answers before I can. “A very annoying complication.”
The corner of my mouth twitches; I let it. “Nico,” I say, extending a hand.
She studies it for a second, then shakes, grip surprisingly firm for someone who weighs about as much as my niece. “You look like trouble, Nico.”
“He is,” Isabella mutters.
“Then you be careful, both of you,” Mrs. Patel says, patting Isabella’s cheek with gentle fingers before shuffling back toward her crowd.
We approach the tape. A uniformed cop steps forward, palm up.
“Ma’am, you can’t go past this line,” he says, eyes flicking briefly to the bruise on her face.
“This is my building,” Isabella replies. “My apartment. I just want to know if it’s… still there.”
He shakes his head, sympathy crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Fire marshal hasn’t cleared the top floors yet. All I can tell you is the blaze is out, and they’re assessing structural damage.”
“Can you at least tell me if…” Her voice wobbles. She swallows it down and tries again. “If the right side of the corridor is worse than the left?”
The cop hesitates. I step in, letting my presence fill the space, dropping my tone into the register that usually gets answers. “Her unit,” I say. “4C. Anything you can share would be appreciated.”
He looks at me differently now, sizing me up. The expensive watch, the tailored suit, the way I do not fidget or blink.
“You family?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say smoothly, not giving Isabella time to react. “She stays with me.”
Isabella glances up at me sharply. I ignore it.
The cop sighs. “Look, off the record… the fire started in 4C. Spread along the hallway. 4B is pretty bad. 4A caught more smoke than flames, but water can ruin as much as fire. Walls are soaked. Ceiling’s down in places. You’re probably looking at months before anyone’s allowed back up there.”
Isabella takes that in like a punch she has to stand up under. Her back stays straight, but her fingers curl around the strap of her bag so tight her knuckles go white.
“Thank you,” she manages.
He nods, steps back, his attention already pulled toward a firefighter waving him over.
We stand there for a moment, the cold cutting through her thin sweater, through my shirt, through everything. The building looms above us, familiar and ruined, a home turned crime scene.
“This can’t be an accident,” I say quietly. “Not after last night.”
Isabella doesn’t answer. Her eyes are fixed on the blackened windows, gaze glassy.
“Hey.” I angle myself toward her. “Breathe.”
“I am,” she says, but it sounds like a lie.
Her shoulders start to shake. Just a little, barely perceptible. Most people wouldn’t notice. I do.