Chapter 10 Isabella #2
I tilt my head, not letting him cower me, and see the challenge in his eyes, before he gives me the tiniest nod of respect. “Maybe, but when I got the tip to write this story, I did my research.”
“Tip?” Nico asks, moving closer.
“Yes, about eighteen months ago, I got sent an article about ISM Holdings written and published in one of the financial papers. It said I should look deeper, so I did.”
Matteo shakes his head with a derisive smirk. “So, someone sent you fishing and you shoved yourself on the line as the bait without knowing it.”
God, could he be right? Was I a pawn from the very first second this began? “I interviewed people who were scared to go on record,” I say. “I followed money that vanished into offshore accounts. I heard enough whispers to know I was circling something rotten. I just didn’t know who owned the rot.”
My father’s voice flickers through my mind: Truth isn’t safe. It’s just necessary.
Adi leans back in his chair. “We’re not ruling anything out yet. But whoever it is, they’re escalating. Which means you’re not going anywhere alone.”
I bristle. “I’m not a package.”
“No,” Nico says. “You’re a target.”
That lands like a stone in my stomach.
“Hey.” Matteo nudges my foot gently with his. “Look on the bright side. You’ve got three very overqualified babysitters now. Some people would pay good money for this level of attention.”
I huff out an unexpected laugh. “Is this your idea of reassurance?”
“It’s my idea of not letting you spiral.” His eyes soften, just a little. “We’re not letting anything happen to you.”
There’s a sincerity there that startles me. I glance at Nico, then Adi. They’re both watching me, different versions of the same intensity. It feels like being under a microscope and inside a safety net all at once.
Before I can answer, there’s a faint ding of a bell followed by a knock on the door. Nico checks the camera, then opens the door to a delivery guy with three large bags of food for dinner.
He takes them, thanks the guy, and shuts the door again with a finality that feels… safe.
“He’s feeding you all the reporter candy?” Matteo asks. “Coffee and trauma?”
Nico ignores him, setting containers out on the island. Pasta, roasted vegetables, grilled chicken, salad. Real food. Warm food. Comfort wrapped in cardboard and steam.
“Come eat,” he says, looking straight at me.
I don’t argue this time. My body’s trembling from more than just fear now.
I realize I haven’t had more than a few bites since yesterday.
I stand slowly, making my way to one of the stools.
The three of them move too, one to the opposite side of the island, one next to me, one hovering like a guard.
We eat mostly in silence at first. Forks scraping gently, muted clinks of glass. The food is simple, but every bite pulls me a little back from the edge. The warmth spreads from my stomach outward, loosening something I hadn’t even realized was clenched.
“So,” Matteo says eventually, gesturing with his fork. “On a scale from one to ten, how much do you regret writing about us?”
I swallow, consider, then answer honestly. “Professionally? Zero. Personally?” I breathe out. “Ten.”
He nods, like he respects that. “Fair enough.”
Adi wipes his mouth with a napkin. “We’ll have Rossi increase security on the building. No one in or out without eyes on them. You don’t leave this penthouse without one of us or a security team, understood?”
“Is that a question?” I ask.
“It’s a condition of your staying here,” he replies. “You’re welcome to refuse. But your alternatives, given your building is currently uninhabitable and someone is actively trying to hurt you, are rather limited.”
It’s logical. It’s reasonable. It still feels like a cage.
I press my tongue against my teeth, thinking. “How long?”
Nico answers before Adi can. “Until we know who’s behind this and they’re neutralized.”
Neutralized. God. I’m not sure if I should be comforted or terrified by how easily that word rolls off his tongue.
“This isn’t permanent,” Nico adds, softer. “We’re not asking you to stay forever.”
The word asking feels generous. “Okay,” I say finally. “But I keep working.”
Three sets of eyes lock on me.
I keep going before they can shut it down. “Not on you,” I add quickly. “On other things. Lighter pieces. Human interest. If I sit in this tower with nothing to do, I’ll climb the walls. And I can’t… I can’t lose that part of myself, too.”
Nico studies me for a long moment, searching for something.
Whatever he finds, it makes his shoulders relax a fraction.
“We’ll talk to your editor,” he says. “Set some boundaries. Make sure you’re not writing anything that gets more guns pointed in our direction while we’re finding the ones already aimed at you. ”
“That’s not how journalism works.”
“It is when you’re living under my roof.”
We lock eyes.
Control versus stubborn independence. Fear versus pride.
Matteo breaks the tension by sliding a bread roll toward me. “Eat. You both look like you’re about to start a rumble in the jungle or fuck on the kitchen island, and I’d prefer not to vomit in my mouth.”
I take the bread, mostly so I don’t say something I’ll regret.
The food disappears slowly. Conversations thin out. The adrenaline that’s been propping me up all morning starts to ebb, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion that seeps into my muscles.
When I push my plate away, my hands are shaking. I grip the edge of the counter to hide it.
Nico notices anyway. “You’re done,” he says. Not unkindly. “You need sleep.”
“I’m fine,” I start to say, but even I can hear the lie in it.
He comes around the island, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. “You’ve had your home burnt, your body beaten, your life threatened, and half of your world turned upside down in twenty-four hours. You’re not fine, Isabella. And that’s okay. Go rest.”
The words land softer than I expect. They’re not condescending. Just… firm. Grounded.
“Come on,” he adds, voice dropping. “I’ll walk you to your room.”
I almost tell him I know the way. I almost tell him I don’t need an escort down his pristine hallway.
But the truth is, I don’t want to walk it alone.
So I slide off the stool and let him fall into step beside me. The brothers stay in the kitchen, their voices a murmur as we move away.
The guest room feels different this time, less strange, more like a temporary version of safety. Nico walks in first, flipping on the lamp by the bed so the light is soft, not harsh.
“Careful,” he says quietly as I lower myself onto the mattress.
My ribs protest, but the bedding is cool and smooth against my skin. He reaches for the blanket, shakes it out once, and settles it over me with a care that makes something sting behind my eyes.
This is stupid. I’m not a child. I don’t need tucking in but when his fingers brush my shoulder through the fabric, something inside me untangles just a little.
“You should rest while we talk things through,” he says. “We’ll keep it quiet.”
“You really think I can sleep while the three of you plan my fate in the next room?” I try to make it a joke. It comes out thinner than I mean.
His mouth tips in the barest hint of a smile. “Your fate isn’t up for debate. Your safety is. That’s non-negotiable.”
“That’s very mafia of you.”
He huffs out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Have a rest, Isabella.”
I turn onto my side, carefully, facing away from him so he won’t see if the emotions finally leak out. The pillow smells faintly of cedar and laundry detergent. My eyes burn.
He lingers in the doorway. I feel him looking at me, the weight of his attention a solid, strange comfort.
“Hey, Nico?” I say softly.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For… all of it. Even the bossiness.”
There’s a long pause.
“You’re welcome,” he says finally. His voice is rougher now, almost quiet enough to be a secret. “Get some rest.”
The door closes nearly shut, not all the way. A sliver of hallway light spills in, a thin line across the carpet.
Their voices drift faintly through the walls after a minute, lower now, serious, words I can’t quite make out. I catch my name once. Bratva. Rossi. Then nothing but a murmur, like the sea through glass.
My body sinks into the mattress, heavy and too light at once. The day starts to slide away, inch by inch. The muted murmur of their voices soothes me, making me feel safe.
And for the first time since everything went sideways, I let myself believe I’m not facing this alone.
Three men in the next room are planning how to keep me alive.
It might not be tidy, or simple, or safe.
But as my eyes finally close, as sleep drags me under, I feel it: the faint, unfamiliar sensation of not carrying all the weight myself.
And even though I know I shouldn’t trust it, shouldn’t trust them, a traitorous part of me already does.