Chapter 12 Isabella
I wake slowly.
Not the jerking, gasping kind of waking I’ve had the last two days, but something softer. A slow float to the surface, like my body finally realized it can rest without being ambushed.
For a second, I don’t remember where I am. Then the faint scent of cedar, expensive detergent, and something distinctly Nico hits my senses, and it all snaps back into place.
Penthouse. Fire. His brothers. Plans whispered behind a half-closed door.
And Nico’s voice last night, low and firm:
Go to sleep, Isabella.
I turn my face into the pillow, exhaling shakily. My ribs throb, but the pain is duller now, muted by rest and the medication from last night. I sit up slowly, wincing, and something catches my eye.
A folded note on the nightstand.
His handwriting, bold, slanted, impatient.
Eat. Take the meds. Don’t argue. — N
The command should annoy me.
It doesn’t.
For reasons I refuse to unpack before coffee, my chest warms.
I swing my legs off the bed carefully. Someone—him—left a soft cream sweater draped over the footboard. Not mine, all my stuff is gone. And folded underneath it are matching sweatpants in my size.
I touch the fabric. Cashmere-soft. Warm.
His actions are thoughtful in a way I’m not ready to acknowledge.
Nico isn’t who I thought he was. In some ways, he is, I guess.
The powerful, confident leader. The man who takes charge of a situation with deadly authority.
Yet with every second I’m near him, he shows me facets of himself that were previously unimaginable.
The tender, gruff care he gives me, the way he speaks to his brothers, so filled with love.
He’s an enigma, a puzzle I can’t help but want to solve.
I dress, brush my hair, take the pills, and make my slow, sore way toward the living room.
The penthouse is bathed in daylight now, soft November sun turning the glass walls gold. It’s quiet except for the low hum of the city and the sound of someone typing.
Nico sits at the kitchen island, sleeves rolled, collar undone, hair slightly mussed like he’s been dragging his hands through it. A laptop is open in front of him, a mug at his elbow.
He looks… tired. But steady. Like a man who stayed awake because he chose to, not because he had to.
His eyes lift the second he senses me.
Not looks. Senses.
Something unspools in my ribs.
“There you are,” he says, voice soft but rough like morning gravel. “Come sit.”
Bossy as ever.
I should hate that it makes me feel anchored.
I don’t.
I slide onto the stool beside him. He’s already reaching to the side before I can speak, pulling a plate toward me—toast, eggs, sliced fruit.
“When did you cook?” I ask, surprised.
“I didn’t,” he says, deadpan. “I have people who do that. They drop things off when I ask.”
“Must be nice.”
His mouth twitches. “It is.”
I pick up a fork, then pause. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
His gaze holds mine. Steady. Quiet. Something unreadable flickers in it. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I did, and I have to eat so it’s no bother.”
Heat flickers in my cheeks.
I clear my throat. “So… your brothers. Last night. Did you figure anything out?”
He leans back slightly, crossing his arms. The movement pulls his shirt tighter across his chest, because of course it does, and of course I notice. I might be his enemy, but I still have a pulse, and currently it’s beating in places it shouldn’t be.
“We made a plan,” he says. “You’re going to help.”
That pulls me upright. “Help? With… what?”
Nico nods at my fork suspended halfway to my mouth. “Eat and I’ll tell you.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, sir.”
His eyes darken as his pupils blow out with desire, his gaze on my lips before they take a slow walk down my body, and land back on my face. “I’m happy for you to call me sir, my little Belle, but I’d prefer it if you were on your knees with your mouth wrapped around my cock when you did.”
I choke on my own spit at his dirty words. I should be scandalized, offended, yet I can’t help but squirm with need at the picture he painted.
“Now, eat up and I’ll explain.”
And just like that, he’s all business again, but I’m over here with a thousand thoughts in my head and every one of them ends in a sweaty, dirty, satisfying orgasm. His eyes are locked on me as I force food into my mouth.
“Your story,” he says, like it’s obvious and none of the middle part of this interaction happened. “Your digging, your skills as a journalist. We want you to keep doing it.”
I blink. “I thought you wanted me to stop.”
“I want you safe,” he corrects. “But you said you needed to work. And you’re good at what you do. So, you’ll keep investigating from here. With restrictions. And with oversight.”
I want to preen at the compliment but I’m stuck on the word oversight. “Oversight?”
He smirks, slow and infuriating. “Me.”
My pulse does something inconvenient. “What exactly would I be doing?”
“You’ll chase leads we give you,” he replies. “Follow breadcrumbs. Connect dots. My brothers will use what you find. And you’ll stay in this penthouse while you do it.”
I open my mouth to argue.
He raises a brow, already winning. “Isabella, look at your hands.”
I glance down.
They’re trembling.
Gently. But undeniably.
And suddenly the fight drains out of me.
“I hate this,” I whisper. “Needing help.”
He studies me with an expression I can’t quite name. Not pity. Definitely not softness. More like… understanding carved into stone.
“Everyone needs help sometimes,” he says.
“Do you?”
His jaw shifts, the smallest crack in his armor. “Yes, even me,” he says quietly.
Something in my chest pulls tight.
Before I can respond, he nods toward the hallway. “There’s something else.”
“Oh, God,” I groan. “That tone never means good things.”
He stands, which feels like the ground shifting, and gestures for me to follow. I rise carefully and trail him down the hall. He stops at a door I didn’t notice yesterday, then swings it open.
I gasp.
The room is filled, not cluttered, but filled, with bags. Designer. Department store. Boutique. Shoes. Coats. Jeans. Sweaters. Lingerie boxes stacked in neat piles.
My cheeks burn. “What… is all this?”
“Your clothes,” he says simply.
“My clothes?”
“You don’t have any,” he reminds me. “And I’m not letting you walk around in pain wearing the same jeans you got attacked in, so I had my assistant get you a few things.”
My eyes go comically wide. “A few things. This isn’t a few things, Nico.”
He waves that away, as if it’s of no consequence that he must have spent thousands of dollars on clothes for me.
“I could’ve ordered clothes or gone to the thrift store.”
“No.” He looks almost offended by the suggestion. “You’re not lifting a finger for anything right now.”
“I can’t accept all of this, Nico.”
“You can,” he says. “And you will.”
My throat goes tight. I swallow hard, blinking against a sting I’m not ready to unpack. “This is too much.”
“It’s not enough,” he says quietly.
We stand there in the doorway. Close. Too close. The air charged and warm, the images from our earlier conversation still etched in my mind.
He reaches out and gently brushes a piece of hair behind my ear.
I swear my heartbeat forgets how to function.
“You’re safe here,” he murmurs.
Something breaks open in my chest.
A soft, aching place I’ve kept locked up since my dad died.
I step back first, because if I don’t, I might lean forward instead. I can handle angry and gruff Nico, and even dirty and sexy Nico. But sweet Nico could ball my heart in his hand and do with it whatever he pleases, and I’m not sure I could stop him or if I’d want to.
“I… I should call my mom,” I say, stepping back.
He nods, stepping aside. “Do that. I’ll be in the kitchen.”
I call my mother first.
She bursts into tears before I even finish saying hello, and I spend twenty minutes reassuring her I’m alive, safe, unburned, un-dead, and well-fed, but neglect to tell her I’m with Nico Mancini. That would only make her worry more, so I tell her I’m staying with a friend and leave it at that.
Then I call my editor, who swears, threatens litigation, then tells me to take the week off but “for the love of everything holy, do NOT stop taking notes.”
My group chat explodes the moment I text the girls, Casey, Iris, and Brianna.
My college friends are the ones I’d normally trust with my every secret.
Yet, I find myself not wanting to share what’s going on right now, especially where I’m currently staying.
Three FaceTime requests. Eight thousand emojis.
Two threats of storming the city with baseball bats and lots of love.
I promise to call them tomorrow and, God, I miss them.
Casey is a nanny for a family in London, and Brianna and Iris run an events planning business in L.A.
, so we’re spread thin, but our bond is unbreakable.
I’m exhausted by the time I wander back to the kitchen.
Nico is still there.
Coffee in front of him and his laptop closed.
Just… waiting.
He looks up immediately. “How’d it go?”
I slide back onto the stool. “Mom cried. My editor swore. My friends want to murder whoever touched me.”
“And you?”
The question lands softly but deeply and I answer honestly. “I don’t know.”
He nods. “That’s allowed.”
Silence settles. Not awkward, warm. Rested. A blanket instead of a wall.
I toy with the edge of a napkin. “Nico?”
“Hm?”
“Thank you. For… all of this. The clothes. The food. The room. The note.”
A slow, controlled exhale leaves his chest. “Don’t thank me,” he says. “Just… stay alive.”
His gaze meets mine.
And for a heartbeat too long, neither of us looks away.
Heat flickers between us, subtle but unmistakable.
An almost-moment.
Dangerous.
Beautiful.
Before anything can happen, before I do something stupid, my stomach growls loudly. I slap a hand over it, mortified.
He bites back a laugh. “I’ll make you some lunch, and this time you’ll finish it,” he says, getting up and crossing to the fridge. “That’s an order.”
“You really enjoy giving those, don’t you?”
His gaze slides over me before he smirks. “Only when you argue,” he says. “Which is always.”
I roll my eyes.
He gives this sexy half smile that makes me want to squeeze my thighs together. God, this man is potent.
“Let me feed you, Belle.”
And something warm slips into the space between us.
Something that feels like the start of whatever comes next.
Something that could burn just as easily as it could save.