Chapter 8
ISABELLA
T he darkness behind my eyes fades slowly, like smoke crawling back into the shadows it came from.
My limbs are heavy. My head pounds once, twice—and then the weight of it all crashes down on me like a wave breaking against a jagged cliff.
The drink. His voice. The way my body betrayed me before my mind could even register what was happening.
I blink at the ceiling. Cold sheets, my silk pillow. My bed. I’m home. He brought me back. Or they did.
I sit up slowly, the ache behind my eyes dragging across my skull like glass. My throat is dry, my mouth tastes like iron and ash. I press my palm to my temple and slide out of bed.
The dress still clings to my skin like a ghost. The same one I wore when I told him I wouldn’t be underestimated. When I slipped a vitamin in his drink and laughed like I’d won.
And then he showed me how wrong I was.
I peel the dress off slowly, letting it fall to the floor in a soft heap of black fabric and pride. My body is still whole. Untouched. He didn’t hurt me.
But that doesn’t make it better. It makes it worse.
He played me. And he did it perfectly.
I pull on a soft black tank and shorts, not bothering to brush my hair. I walk barefoot to the living room, cold marble under my feet, the weight of humiliation simmering into something far more dangerous.
Rage.
The kind that doesn’t scream or cry. The kind that plots.
The living room is dim, the soft golden lights from the kitchen washing across the space like warm fog. Kellan stands near the counter, pouring coffee into a mug, the clink of ceramic the only sound. Ash sits
on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. Neither of them look at me.
They heard me. They always do.
I cross the room and lean against the kitchen island, arms crossed, silent. My eyes flick to Kellan’s. He finally looks up. His expression is unreadable, but his jaw ticks once.
Ash doesn’t move. “He’s lucky you’re not dead,” he says quietly, voice low and rough like gravel. “You were out cold for too long.”
I don’t respond. I just reach for Kellan’s coffee and take a slow sip. Bitter. Hot. Perfect.
“He drugged me,” I say finally. “That was his move.”
Ash scoffs under his breath. “And he’s still breathing?”
I look at him. “He didn’t hurt me.”
“That doesn’t make it better,” Kellan says.
“I know.”
That’s what makes it worse.
He didn’t touch me. Didn’t threaten me. Didn’t even warn me. He just smiled… and watched the world blur.
I set the cup down. “I’m not going to cry over it,” I say. “And I’m not going to hide.”
Ash raises an eyebrow. “What’re you going to do?”
I look at both of them. My heart’s steady. Cold. “I’m going to remind him who he’s playing with.”
Silence.
Kellan watches me closely. “What’s the plan?”
I smile, but there’s no warmth in it. Only ice.
“First,” I say, stepping away from the counter, “you’re going to find out where Rafael will be tonight.”
Kellan’s eyes narrow, the hint of approval flickering behind them. He nods once. “I’ll get you the location.”
Good.
Because I’m not done. Not by a long shot.
The water I took from the counter doesn’t help. I sip it anyway—slowly, quietly—feeling the chill of it slide down my throat, pooling somewhere deep inside me. The glass is cold in my hand, my fingers steady despite the weight pressing down on my ribs.
I move to the couch, legs folding beneath me as I sink into the cushions. My other hand curls around the throw draped over the armrest, not to pull it over me, but to feel something. Ground myself.
The quiet is heavy, the kind that creeps under your skin and dares you to flinch.
Ash is back on the couch opposite me, silent again, one foot resting on his knee, twirling a dagger between his fingers. His eyes flick to mine every so often. Kellan leans against the wall by the window, arms crossed, his phone screen casting faint light across his jaw.
I stare ahead at nothing, my eyes unfocused.
He drugged me. And I let him.
I knew something was off. I tasted it. Felt it. Saw the smear of it at the bottom of the glass. But I still drank it. Still sat there, letting the floor tilt sideways, letting my lashes get heavier, letting my body surrender.
Because some part of me wanted to see what he’d do. And Rafael Romanov, the Bratva’s cold, ruthless king—Didn’t do anything.
He left me untouched. Unbothered. Safe. And that… that was the part that rattled me the most.
It would’ve been easier if he’d crossed a line. Then I could’ve burned him for it.
But instead, he wrapped his lesson in silence and control. He got under my skin without ever laying a hand on me.
Which means I have to cut deeper.
The glass in my hand is half empty now, condensation dripping onto my thigh. I set it down on the table and lean my head back, staring at the ceiling.
I don’t know how long I sit there, drifting between thoughts and heat and calculation, but after a while, Kellan’s voice breaks the stillness.
“Got it.”
I turn to him. He pushes off the wall and walks toward me, phone in hand. “Rafael’s headed to the casino tonight. Not just for business—someone’s been sniffing around the edges.”
“Who?” I ask.
“Name’s Viktor Dreshaj. Albanian mafia.”
Ash lets out a low whistle. “They’re bold if they’re showing up there.”
“They’re not subtle,” Kellan says. “Our guys say Viktor’s been testing Rafael’s people—nothing too overt, but it’s getting aggressive. Tension’s building.”
My lips curl at the edges. “And they’ll both be there tonight?”
Kellan nods. “He’s on the guest list. Private suite upstairs, but he’s not hiding. Rafael’s keeping him close to watch him.”
I hum, already piecing it together in my mind. The space. The opportunity. The slow burn in Rafael’s eyes when he thinks he’s the only one setting the rules.
“Perfect,” I say softly.
Kellan raises an eyebrow. “You’re planning something.”
I look at him. “I want to play him at his own game.”
Ash narrows his eyes. “You’re not talking about Romanov.”
“No.” My smile sharpens. “Viktor.”
I rise slowly, walking toward Kellan. “Show me what he looks like.”
He swipes across his phone, taps something, and then hands it to me. The photo loads—Viktor, mid-forties, tall, lean muscle, gray at his temples, thick scar running down the side of his neck. Arrogant in the way men like him always are.
Easy to manipulate. Easier to disarm.
“He likes power,” Kellan says. “And women who look like trouble.”
I hand the phone back, smile sharpening. “Then I’m exactly his type.”
Ash leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re not actually going to sleep with him, are you?”
I look at him. “No. But he’ll think I might.”
He grunts. “Cold.”
Kellan’s watching me carefully. “And Romanov?”
I tilt my head, letting my smile fade into something colder. “He’ll be watching.”
Let him.
The woman in the mirror doesn’t look like someone anyone should fuck with. But she looks exactly like someone they all would.
The dress hugs every inch of me, black like ink and sin.
The fabric wraps around my neck like a choker, then plunges downward in a deep, dangerous curve—exposing the center of my chest in a tease of skin, without giving anything away.
The sides are cut out just enough to reveal the smooth line of my stomach, meeting the curve of my hips before ending mid-thigh.
The gold chain belt wrapped around my waist glints like a warning. Not flashy. Not loud. But sharp. Every loop carefully placed, catching the light with every breath I take.
My legs are long in blood-red soles. My lips match. Red as the lies I’ve told. And my hair—slicked back into a tight ponytail—feels like a blade being drawn.
I look at myself in the mirror for a long time, the silence heavy behind me. He underestimated me. Again.
Rafael Romanov drugged me, sat across from me while my body failed and my pride shattered quietly between my ribs. He thought that would put me back in line. Thought it would remind me that he’s the one who writes the rules.
But he forgot who he’s playing with.
Tonight isn’t about Viktor. He’s just the bait.
Tonight is about Rafael watching me wrap danger around my fingers like silk. Tonight is about reminding him that if he’s going to sit across from me, he better come armed.
I take one last look at myself, then turn and walk out of the bedroom.
The living room glows soft under the golden lights. Kellan is by the bar, pouring a drink with the kind of calm that hides a storm underneath. Ash is leaning against the wall near the door, adjusting the cuffs of his black shirt, sleeves rolled up, gun holstered just out of sight.
They both look up when I enter. Kellan’s eyebrows lift a fraction. “You planning to kill someone, or seduce them first?”
“Whichever gets me there faster,” I say, stepping into the room like it belongs to me.
Ash lets out a low whistle. “If you told me last year I’d be playing guard dog to a woman like you, I would’ve laughed in your face.”
“You’re still allowed to laugh,” I murmur, walking past him, reaching for the clutch on the console table.
“I’m just trying to figure out if we’re showing up to a war or a funeral,” he adds, watching me carefully.
“Both,” I answer simply. “But I’m not the one being buried.”
Kellan hands me a drink—something sharp and clear—and I take a slow sip before setting it back down.
“You remember the photo of Viktor?” I ask.
Ash nods. “We’ll keep eyes on him. And you.”
“You know where you’ll be?” I ask.
Kellan steps closer, his gaze sharp. “We’ve got the upstairs exit, main floor, and south hallway covered. If anything feels off, you get out.”
I smile. “You say that like I’d actually run.”
“You say that like I won’t drag you out if I have to.”
I don’t respond. I just hold his stare. Unflinching. Eventually, Ash breaks the tension with a smirk. “Let’s go ruin someone’s night.”
I turn toward the door, the soft click of my heels against marble trailing after me like a threat. The boys follow, suits dark, eyes sharper.