Chapter 30 Nico
I’m already moving before the call ends.
One moment I’m in the boardroom listening to the head of the largest Bank in Asia talk about our expansion plans via a conference call, the next, my chair is back, my phone is in my hand, and every molecule in my body is pointed in one direction.
Home. To her.
A false fire alarm. People pushed out of the building. And when they come back up? A dead rat on my coffee table. In my penthouse, where my family and I celebrated Thanksgiving yesterday. Someone is going to die for this. I’ll gut them like a pig and watch them bleed for this.
Leaving a dead fucking rat where she sleeps, where she laughs. Where I let myself believe, for one fucking second, that we might be able to build something normal on top of all this.
Traffic is a blur. I don’t remember most of the drive. I just know the engine growls when I push it and that I’m gripping the wheel too tight and that if a cop tried to pull me over right now, I’d probably end up on the news for assaulting an NYPD officer.
By the time I hit the garage, Rossi has texted.
Floor secure. Building management told it was a prank. Nobody is touching the scene till you get here.
Good.
The elevator ride up is too slow and not nearly long enough at the same time.
My reflection in the steel doors looks like someone you cross the street to avoid.
Jaw set, eyes too dark, tie yanked half loose.
An accident had snarled up the traffic, turning a fifteen-minute drive into a fucking forty-minute one.
When the doors open, two of my men straighten. I don’t slow down.
“Anything?” I ask as I pass.
“Nothing since the alarm, boss,” one says. “We’ve got the feed pulled. Guy came up the stairs, in and out fast. Cap. Mask. Head down.”
Of course they fucking did. This is my uncle, and he isn’t an amateur.
I step inside, and the smell hits me first. Not blood, that’s faint under good cleaning products and the ghost of Thanksgiving. It’s us, her shampoo, the coffee she made this morning, the cinnamon candle she lit last night because “it smells like Christmas,” whatever the fuck that means.
And under it all, a wrong note. Something metallic. Dark.
She’s near the window, arms wrapped tight around herself, Rossi a steady wall half a step in front of her.
Her eyes find me instantly.
Everything in me unclenches and tightens at the same time. She’s upright. She’s whole. She’s here.
Then my gaze catches on the coffee table.
And yeah. There it is.
A rat. Throat slit, fur matted, blood dried in rust-colored drops like somebody flicked a paintbrush. Little gray body arranged right in the center of the glass, like an art installation in hell.
They wanted it seen.
I walk past it.
If I look too long, I’ll put my fist through the table and that won’t help anyone.
“How bad?” I ask, eyes on Isabella.
She swallows. Her voice is steady, but just. “I’m okay. Scared. Pissed off. Not necessarily in that order.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
I don’t believe it until I’ve closed the space and run a quick scan myself, hands on her arms, her sides, the line of her jaw. No flinch of pain. Just a tremor I don’t like.
I pull her in.
She comes without argument, face pressing into my chest, hands curling in my shirt like she’s not sure if she’s holding on or holding me back.
Probably both.
“You’re okay,” I murmur into her hair. “You’re okay, Belle.”
Her shoulders shake once, a silent aftershock, then settle. “I was working,” she says into my shirt. “The alarm went off. Rossi got me down the stairs. They kept us out there forever, and when we came back up…” Her fingers tighten. “It was just there.”
Of course they used the alarm. Smoke and chaos are their favorite trick.
“They wanted you out of the space,” I say. “Wanted time alone in here. We’ll need to sweep for bugs.” I aim the last at Rossi, who nods.
I can see regret in his expression. He feels responsible and so he fucking should. This should never have happened. But deep down, I know if someone is motivated enough, it’s hard to stop them. But I will. Because nobody is getting near her again.
I glance at Rossi. “We know anything yet?”
He shakes his head once. “Too clean. No prints, no fibers obvious to the eye. The guy never showed his face on camera, used the stairs, knew the blind spots. We’ll run the footage through enhancement, but I wouldn’t bet on it.”
I exhale slowly, keeping the rage on a leash. “What about the alarm?” I ask.
“Pulled on twelve,” he says. “Right in the middle. No camera pointed directly at the pull station. Building manager’s genius decision back when they renovated.”
Of course it was. “Get him to fix it,” I say. “On every floor. I don’t care if he has to wallpaper this building with cameras. Nobody breathes in this place without us seeing it from three angles.”
Rossi’s mouth twitches. “Already making a list.”
“You know what, scrap that idea. Call Adi and tell him I want this building owned by ISM before the end of the week. I don’t care what it costs.”
“Yes, boss.”
He moves toward the table with gloves and an evidence bag. My arm tightens around Isabella’s waist. “You’re not watching this,” I tell her.
“I’ve been staring at it for an hour,” she mutters. “It’s ugly, but it’s a message. I’m not going to pass out because there’s a dead rodent on your overpriced glass.”
“It’s not about that.”
“It is about that. Rat. Snitch. Informant.” She looks up at me. “They’re calling me a rat, Nico. Or maybe you. Or both of us.”
She’s not wrong.
“Let me see the rest of the message,” I say.
Rossi nods, sliding something across the table, a small torn strip of newsprint held in tweezers. The words are mine before I even focus on them.
No, not mine.
Hers.
Some debts are never really paid. They’re just deferred, with interest.
I recognize it. Her pull line. The one half the city quoted at me for a week after that article dropped.
Isabella goes a shade paler. “Well,” she says faintly. “That’s…creative brand engagement.”
“They’re playing cute,” I say. “Debts. Interest. Rats. They think this is clever.”
“It’s all about money with Orlov,” she mutters. “It’s never justice or ideology or some bullshit code. It’s always about coins on a table. Your dad cut him off at the docks; now he’s calling in compounded revenge. Plus whatever side deal he’s made with ‘the uncle’.”
We’d told her about Orlov but now I’m wondering if she needs the entire truth. That our uncle might be behind it all. She doesn’t know it’s Domenico yet. We’ve kept that name buried until we have more than a thug’s word.
“Could also be a warning not to dig into those old financials,” she goes on, eyes sharpening. “You said Adi is tracing Orlov’s shell companies, right? Maybe we’re closer than we think.”
That’s the thing about having a journalist on your team. She sees patterns in words the way Matteo sees patterns in numbers. “You’re not wrong,” I say.
“Oh, talk dirty to me, baby,” she mutters with a laugh and a wink.
I wink at her flirty comment. “Later.”
She smiles, trying to level the moment.
Rossi finishes with the table. “We’ll get the rat and the note to the lab,” he says. “Trace the blood, any hair, anything under the claws, we’ll pull whatever we can. I’ll handle transport myself.”
I nod. “Nobody else touches it without your eyes on them.”
“Yes, boss.”
When he’s gone and the living room is just a coffee table with a faint smear where the worst of it was, I turn back to Isabella. “Bedroom,” I say quietly.
She lifts her chin. “Interrogation, nap, or something more fun?”
“None,” I say. “Although you can bet your ass that I’m going to have some fun with this sexy body later. But for now, we need to just breathe. I need to just hold you. That call took ten years off my life.”
Her mouth opens like she’s going to argue. Then she sees something in my face and just nods.
Good girl.
I take her to the bedroom and shut the door, blocking out the hum of Rossi, the low murmur of noise. In here, the only noise is the whisper of the HVAC and the slow tick of the clock on the dresser and her breathing a little too fast.
She leans back against the door, her head thunking softly against the wood. “I hate them,” she says. “Whoever they are. I hate that they keep getting into my spaces like a bad leak I can’t find. First my building, now yours. What’s next? My mom’s kitchen? Letty’s school? They don’t stop.”
“They will,” I say.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I’m going to make them stop.”
That makes her blink.
“I’m not going to let them hurt you,” I clarify.
“I’m not going to let them take you from me.
I can’t promise you they won’t try again.
But I can be sure we’re going to make it harder every time.
And I can be sure of this,” I step closer, watching her pupils flare, “they picked the wrong woman to turn into a message.”
Her throat works. “I feel like a prop in their play.”
“You’re not.” I bracket her head with my hands, palms flat on the door. “You’re in the writers’ room now, remember? You’re not just the story, you’re one of us.”
She absorbs that, her shoulders loosening a fraction. “I don’t want to just sit here and shake,” she says. “I want to do something.”
“You are,” I say. “You know what Rossi can’t do?
What Adi can’t do? See how this plays on the outside.
Follow the words. The leaks. The narrative.
You know how Orlov looks in ink. You can trace whoever fed you that original tip, connect that to the money Adi’s following and the names Matteo’s hearing in his clubs.
You’re not just bait, Belle. You’re an analyst.”
She snorts weakly. “So sexy.”
“It is,” I say, dead serious.
Her lips twitch.
“You know the rules,” I go on. “You don’t meet sources alone.
You don’t go anywhere without one of us or one of my men.
No sneaking off to have a quiet word with some guy who ‘used to tend bar in Brighton Beach.’ You want to pull a thread, you bring it to me or Adi first. We decide who pulls and how. ”
Her eyes spark. “I’ve obeyed your ridiculous safety protocols since the night a Russian kneecap enthusiast kicked me into a coffee table.”
“Mostly,” I counter.
She winces. “Okay, except for going back to my apartment that one time, but you were with me then.”
“And the train.”
“And the train. And maybe my mother’s house before Rossi put a man on her building.” She blows out a breath. “But I’ve been good lately, and, anyway, that was before.”
I lean in until my forehead rests against hers. “Be better,” I say quietly. “Please. I care about you, and every time you walk out a door without me, my heart tries to climb out after you.”
Her eyes soften, something fierce and fragile flickering there. “I know,” she whispers. “Same problem.”
We stay like that for a beat, breathing the same air, the threat outside the door pressing in but not quite cracking this small bubble we’ve carved out.
“Okay,” she says finally, straightening.
“Operational plan. I’ll write down everything from today while it’s fresh.
Shock does weird things to memory. Then I’ll sit with Adi or Matteo, and go over the timeline again, fires, attacks, money, names.
See if the rat and the quote fit into a bigger sentence.
No solo field trips. No meeting mysterious sources in parking garages. ”
“Good,” I say. “And you eat something. You’re shaking.”
“That’s adrenaline.”
“That’s low blood sugar,” I counter. “You didn’t eat lunch.”
She frowns. “Have you bugged my stomach?”
“Yes.”
She laughs, breathless. It’s a good sound. Cuts through the static.
I cup her face, my thumb brushing along her jaw. “You’re staying,” I say. It’s not a question. “No running, no guilt about putting us in danger. This is our mess now. We clean it together.”
A slow exhale leaves her, like she’s letting go of something heavy. “Okay,” she whispers. “Together.”
I kiss her then. Not to distract. To anchor. To remind both of us what we’re fighting to protect.
She kisses me back like she understands.
Like she’s all in.
There’s a knock at the door, soft but insistent.
“Boss,” Rossi calls. “We’ve got something on the footage. When you’re ready.”
I pull back, resting my forehead on hers for one more heartbeat.
“Duty calls,” she murmurs.
“It’s getting annoying,” I agree.
“I’m getting used to it,” she says. “You go. I’ll make notes. And maybe coffee. And maybe Google rat symbolism so I can overthink this later.”
“Don’t go near the balcony,” I tell her. “Or the door. Or the—”
“Nico.”
I stop.
She smiles, small but real. “I’ll be careful.”
It’s not enough. It has to be.
I kiss her once more, then step back and open the door.
War waits on the other side.
Good.
I’m ready to introduce it to the concept of consequences.