Chapter 38 Isabella
The world comes back in pieces. First, there’s the ache at the base of my skull, a heavy, throbbing pulse that makes my stomach roll. Then the taste in my mouth, chemical and cotton-dry, like I’ve been breathing through a dirty rag. I try to swallow and realize my tongue feels too big.
Then there’s the bed.
It’s not Nico’s. That’s the first clear thought. The mattress is firmer, the sheets crisp in a way his never are because I insist on washing them with lavender softener. The pillow smells faintly of starch and old perfume.
I open my eyes.
The ceiling above me is high and ornate, pale plaster worked into curls and rosettes, the kind of craftsmanship you only see in old houses and expensive hotels. A chandelier hangs from the center, all muted gold and crystal drops, the light turned down low so they glow rather than glitter.
I push myself up on my elbows. My head protests. The room tilts and then rights itself.
It’s a beautiful bedroom, in that cold, curated way that says it belongs to no one and everyone at once. Tall windows with heavy drapes. A carved wardrobe. A dressing table with a three-panel mirror. The bed itself is huge, four posters, white quilt, too pristine to feel real.
The door is closed, no doubt locked from the other side.
There’s a faint hum somewhere in the distance, water in pipes maybe, or heating settling. No traffic. No city. Just a peaceful quiet, that gives the air a false tranquility.
Fear arrives like a late guest, trailing behind the details. My heart stutters in my chest as I take a few deep breaths to calm the wildly beating organ.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed. Someone has put shoes on me. My boots are laced neatly, my coat is gone, but I’m still in my sweater and jeans. My wrists are free. So are my ankles.
That feels wrong. Care and thought and yet I’m still here against my will.
I know Domenico took me to use as a bargaining chip with Nico, but what does he want from him and, more importantly, what will Nico do to get me back?
The thought of how he must be feeling, knowing I was taken right from his home, makes my nose sting with tears.
No matter what his uncle said, I know Nico cares about me.
If he lied, he had a reason. It doesn’t excuse it, and when I get out of here, he’s getting read the riot act, but I won’t overreact like a third-act break-up heroine from a book.
No, I’ll keep calm.
I stand slowly, padding across the rug to the window. Everything is taken care of, no dust in sight. The drapes are heavier up close; brocade patterned with vines. I edge one aside, just enough to look out.
What I see makes my breath catch. A large green lawn. Trees bare and ready for winter. A gravel drive loops past what looks like the corner of a stone building.
Beyond that, through the bare branches, there’s the faint glimmer of water, suggesting a pond or a small lake. There’s a low stone wall in the distance and, beyond that, a smear of rooftops and something taller, a church steeple maybe, with a cross at the top.
Wherever I am, it isn’t the city. It feels like a private estate of some kind.
I let the curtain fall. Is that good or bad? Probably bad. It means no passersby are going to help me. I’m on my own.
The door opens behind me and I startle, moving back from the window.
I turn and have a split second to register the two large men in the doorway before another figure steps between them, smiling like we’re old friends.
Mikhail Orlov. I recognize the Russian Mobster from pictures when I was doing my research for the article on ISM.
He’s shorter than Nico, broader through the middle, his expensively tailored suit straining a little at the buttons. His hair is iron-gray and slicked back, his eyes small and sharp in a heavy face that might read as jovial if you didn’t know what he did for a living.
He claps his hands once, softly, like a host checking if his guests are awake. “Ah,” he says. “Sleeping beauty joins us.”
“Wrong fairy tale,” I say. My voice comes out rough but steady. “I don’t think the princess wakes up in a kidnapping fantasy.”
He chuckles. “You have spirit. Domenico said you did.”
“Domenico,” I repeat. The taste of the name in my mouth is bile. “Is he here?”
“For the moment.” Orlov strolls into the room, the men flanking him but staying just inside the door. “We have some business to finalize before we move to our… main event.”
“Main event,” I echo. “Let me guess. The part where you try to kill the Mancini brothers.”
His smile widens. “See? Quick. I like that in a woman. It’s a shame we’re on opposite sides.”
“We don’t have to be,” I say, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from interviews with dangerous men, it’s that they love to talk. “You could just… not do this. Go home. Drink vodka. Retire. Find a hobby that doesn’t involve bullets.”
He laughs, genuinely amused. “You think I’ve come this far to walk away? No, little reporter. This has taken years to arrange. The pressure, the leaks, the article… all threads in a very careful web. We’re in the middle now, and that’s where the feast happens.”
I swallow. “You’re planning to ambush them at the docks.”
“Ambush is such an ugly word,” he says mildly. “I prefer… correction. Course adjustment. The boys have been sailing the ship in the wrong direction. Time to remind them whose map they’re using.”
“And me?” I ask. “What am I? The siren? The sacrifice?”
“Bait,” he says, shrugging. “And leverage for a little while. A symbol. You’ve been useful, Isabella. Your article did more to shake their foundation than anything my men could have arranged. But like all tools, you have an expiration date.”
My hands curl at my sides. “You think killing me will make them fold?”
“Oh, I don’t plan to kill you,” he says.
Relief hits so hard my knees almost go, then he adds, “That’s Domenico’s pet project.”
The relief curdles.
“He has his own… unresolved business,” Orlov continues. “Debts, as you know. Old wounds. Men like us, we have long memories.”
“He murdered my father,” I say, because I want to hear it in this room, with these men, less like a nightmare and more like an accusation. “In the street.”
“Your father should not have poked his nose where it didn’t belong,” Orlov says without heat. “But it served a purpose. It taught Enzo a lesson about whose secrets were truly dangerous.” He frowns for a moment. “Unfortunately, it also made him grow a conscience. Which has no place in our world.”
Hearing that Enzo Mancini was affected by my father’s death gives me a tiny measure of relief. “And Nico?” My throat tightens. “Did it teach him something, too?”
“Ah.” His eyes gleam. “There’s the heart of it. You wonder what he knew. What he hid. Whether his hands are as clean as you convinced yourself.”
He’s not wrong about the wondering, but the sting in his tone makes something stubborn rise in me. “You can say whatever you want,” I tell him. “He’s not you. Or Domenico. He doesn’t get off on this.”
“Doesn’t he?” Orlov asks, mildly. “He plays the clean businessman very well, but when I look at him, I see his father’s eyes when the mask slips. You’ve seen it too, I think. That flash of something sharp when someone threatens what’s his.”
“That’s called loving people,” I say. “You wouldn’t recognize it.”
For a moment, his smile drops. Then it’s back. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
Footsteps sound in the corridor. A moment later, Domenico appears in the doorway, coat on, gloves in his hand, looking like he’s about to head to a family dinner instead of a potential bloodbath.
“Ready?” Orlov asks.
“Almost.” Domenico’s gaze slides over me, assessing. “You should have seen the way she looked at me when I told her about her father,” he says conversationally. “Like a kicked dog that still wanted to bite.”
My stomach flips, but I keep my face still. “You enjoy this,” I say. “Hurting people. Tearing open wounds you made.”
“Enjoy?” He considers. “I enjoy balance. You and your mother lived because Enzo agreed to keep my secret. Now his sons have chosen to go against me. The scales have tipped too far. They’ll be righted tonight.”
“And me?” I ask again. “Because Orlov thinks you’re going to kill me and pin my soul to your trophy wall.”
Domenico smiles faintly. “Killing you outright would be wasteful. And messy. No. You’re more valuable as a story.
” He steps closer, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear with obscene intimacy.
I fight not to flinch. “Imagine it, Isabella: the great Nico Mancini, would-be king of the clean empire, brought to his knees not by a bullet meant for him, but by smoke. By fire. By the grief of losing the woman he’s foolish enough to love. ”
The room seems to tilt. “You’re going to set a fire.”
“Not me,” he says. “Orlov enjoys that sort of thing. I’m more of a… conceptual man these days.”
“I won’t burn quietly,” I say, because my voice is the only weapon I have left. “I won’t just lie here and cry while your men stack kindling.”
He laughs softly. “I don’t expect you to. That’s the beauty of it. You’ll fight, you’ll scream, you’ll claw at the door, and when Nico hears about it, he’ll see your charred ghost every time he closes his eyes. He’ll wonder if you blamed him. He’ll assume you did.”
The worst part is that once, a few years ago, that might even have been true. There was a long stretch of my life where grief curdled into blame with very little encouragement.
But now?
Now I think about the way Nico looked at me under the Christmas tree, how he sat outside my door the night of the attack, the way he held me on the couch and talked about new beginnings while ghosts pressed at his shoulders.
I think about how he told me he loved me like it was both a confession and a promise, even though he thought I slept.
I know what he is. I know what he’s done. I know what he’s trying to be.