Chapter 10 Isabella
By the time we get back to the penthouse, I’m running on fumes.
My ribs ache with every breath, a dull, wrapping pain that creeps up my back and into my shoulders.
The kind of ache that makes your body feel a size too small for everything you’re trying to hold together.
My head’s buzzing, not just from painkillers and smoke, but from the image of my building blackened and crumbling, firefighters moving like ghosts through the ruin of what used to be home.
Nico’s building is too clean for all that grief.
The elevator opens into a wide hallway with double doors that lead straight into his living room, all glass and steel and expensive understatement.
The city stretches out beyond the windows, busy and bright, like nothing happened.
Like no one tried to break me, or burn my life down, yet I’m glad I’m here.
I know I need to call my mom and my friends and my boss but that can wait an hour. I need to breathe.
“Sit,” Nico says quietly, nodding toward the couch.
I obey before I think about it, lowering myself gingerly onto the soft, dark fabric. My ribs protest, but the cushions give just enough. The penthouse smells like coffee, wood polish, and the faint trace of his cologne, something warm and clean, like cedar and winter air.
He moves through the kitchen with contained energy, setting his keys down, shrugging out of his coat. Everything about him is controlled, trimmed down, like he’s keeping himself on a short leash.
I wrap my arms around myself, fingers brushing the torn edge of my sweater. “You don’t have to babysit me, you know.”
He glances over his shoulder. “I’m not babysitting you.”
“No?” I lift a brow. “What would you call it?”
“Containment.” He grabs his phone, thumbs already moving. “I’m calling my brothers. We’re not doing this alone.”
A strange twinge hits my chest. Not jealousy.
Something like… awareness. There’s more to him than the suit and the scowl and the article headline I tried to boil his life down to.
Is that regret I feel niggling in my gut?
Did I make a mistake writing what I did?
I thought he was a certain type of man, and now I wonder if I missed the mark.
Or maybe like a novice, only got half the story.
He sends a message, then another. His jaw ticks once, twice, a rhythm I’m starting to recognize as his version of pacing. When he looks back at me, his gaze softens by a millimeter.
“Hungry?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Not really.”
He gives me a look that says wrong answer. “That wasn’t the question I asked.”
“It was literally the question you asked.”
“I asked if you’re hungry. Not if you feel like eating.” He taps a number on his phone. “You’re eating.”
“I’m not a dog,” I mutter.
He smirks faintly. “No. Dogs usually listen better.”
Despite everything, my lips twitch. It feels like a betrayal to smile right now, but there it is anyway, small and stubborn.
He orders food like he orders everything else—succinct, decisive, no room for argument. When he hangs up, he drops into the armchair across from me. For a moment, neither of us speaks.
My phone lies in my lap, dark screen reflecting a smudge on my face. I touch it gently, like it’s something fragile. “Do you think there’ll be anything left?” I ask. “Of my place, I mean.”
His gaze holds mine. “We’ll find out.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.” He leans forward, forearms braced on his knees, fingers laced. “Insurance will cover the building and contents. I can sort out clothes and other stuff in the meantime. If there’s anything we can salvage, we will. You won’t be homeless.”
“I don’t care about the lease, Nico.” My throat tightens. “It’s… my stuff. My photos. My dad’s things. My mom’s ugly ceramic angel that looks like it’s judging you from every corner. You can’t replace that with new stuff.”
Something flickers behind his eyes. Understanding. Regret. A ghost of something I can’t name. “No,” he says quietly. “You can’t.”
We sit in that awful honesty for a moment.
A few hours later elevator chimes.
I jolt, heart thudding too fast, and hate how obvious it feels. Nico notices, of course he does, but he doesn’t comment. He just stands, the room shifting subtly around his presence.
“They’re here,” he says.
They. The brothers.
I smooth a hand down my sweater, suddenly aware of the smoke smell still clinging to my clothes, the bruise darkening my cheek, the ache in my bones.
I’ve met powerful men before—CEOs, politicians, billionaires with more money than conscience, but this feels different.
These men share his name. They share a history I only wrote about from the outside.
The doors slide open.
First out is Adriano—Adi—all tailored slacks and crisp shirt, with quiet eyes, the middle brother I’ve seen in photographs attached to legal achievements and corporate wins. His hair is smoothly combed, tie knotted with precision, like he came straight from something important.
Behind him strides Matteo, the youngest, the charming one. Black shirt, open collar, dark blazer, and that easy grin I’ve seen on gossip sites where he’s usually standing too close to someone too beautiful. He looks like trouble, beautiful, well-tailored trouble.
Matteo’s gaze hits me first. It sharpens, the grin fading around the edges. “Jesus, Nico,” he says quietly. “He did a number on her.”
My spine goes ramrod straight. I hate that I feel exposed. I hate that they see damage before they see anything else.
Adi’s gaze is different. Assessing, cool, but not unkind. “Ms. Romano,” he says, giving a small nod. “We’ve been reading your work.”
I swallow. “Isabella’s fine.”
He studies me a beat longer. “Isabella, then.”
Nico steps slightly between us. Not fully blocking, but enough that I feel the line he draws in the room. “We’re not here to talk about her articles.”
“On the contrary,” Matteo says lightly, walking around the couch to lean against the back of it, his presence warm at my shoulder. “Her article is why we’re having this lovely little family gathering. Seems fair to give it a nod.”
“Matty,” Nico warns.
He lifts his hands. “What? I’m being polite.”
Adi ignores their bickering, focusing on me the way I imagine he focuses on opposing counsel. “We need to go over everything that’s happened to you in the last few days,” he says. “Every contact. Every threat. Anything that felt off, even if you dismissed it at the time.”
My fingers tighten around my phone. There’s more there than I’ve told Nico. The silent calls. The shove on the platform. The text about my lights.
Nico’s eyes find mine. Dark. Steady. “Isabella?”
I wet my lips. They feel too dry, too cracked. “There were some things after the article came out,” I admit. “Or… before the attack, at least.”
His jaw works once. “Define some things.”
I take a breath, trying to steady the tremor in my chest. “The day the article dropped, I started getting calls from unknown numbers. No one speaking, just… breathing. Slow. Intentional.”
“Why didn’t you say something last night?” Nico’s voice is quiet, but there’s metal threaded through it.
“Because weird calls come with the territory,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “Reporters get all kinds of strange shit happen. And my dad used to say, ‘If the crazies are calling, you’re probably doing your job’ so,” I shrug one shoulder, “I didn’t connect it to any of this until now.”
Adi glances at Nico, then back at me. “Anything else?”
I hesitate. The subway platform swims up in my memory, the shove, the sting of concrete, the way no one stopped.
“Friday night, after dinner at my mom’s, someone pushed me getting off the train.
” I force the words out calmly, like I’m reciting facts in a report.
“I thought it was just a jerk in a hurry. I went down hard. Scraped my hands, knees. But now…” I trail off.
Silence stretches. It hums.
Nico swears under his breath. “You didn’t think that was something I should know?”
“I just met you,” I snap, heat flooding my cheeks. “You were already pissed about the article and the car, I didn’t feel like handing you more reasons to think I’m some reckless idiot who doesn’t know how to exist.”
His gaze flares, something raw and frustrated in it. “I don’t think you’re an idiot.”
“Could have fooled me.”
Matteo makes a low noise, like he’s watching a tennis match. “This is fun,” he mutters. “We should do this more often.”
Adi shoots him a look. Then he focuses back on me. “And the text message?”
I blink. “What text?”
“The one you blocked,” Nico says. “You mentioned it in the diner last night. I heard enough to know it wasn’t nothing.”
Of course he did.
“It said ‘Pretty lights’,” I admit, throat tight. “I’d just finished putting up my decorations. I thought it was some troll from Twitter being… creepy. Or maybe a neighbor with bad boundaries. I blocked it.”
Adriano exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. Matteo’s expression finally loses its last trace of amusement. He moves around to sit on the arm of the couch, close but not crowding me.
“Okay,” Adi says. “So, we have anonymous calls, a shove on a crowded platform, a text that indicates visual proximity to your apartment, an attempted vehicular assault, a break-in, and now a fire targeting your floor.”
When he lays it all out like that, my pulse skids. “It wasn’t random,” I whisper.
“No,” Nico says. “It wasn’t random.”
The room feels smaller suddenly, the walls closer. I curl my fingers into the hem of the sweater, grounding myself in the rough knit. “So, what now?” I ask. “You think the Russians did it? Because of the article? Because I mentioned certain contracts and shell companies by name?”
Adriano’s jaw visibly clenches. “Those offshore accounts are legal and so are the shell companies.”