Chapter 9 #2
But sometimes… like tonight… it stretches. And I let it. Just enough to remember why I started this war in the first place.
My eyes flick to my phone on the counter. The screen lights up, waiting.
Rafael. A man with too many secrets behind his eyes. One I don’t trust. One who looked me dead in the eye and called my bluff—and who’s probably still trying to figure out what game I’m playing.
I don’t think he knows anything. But thinking isn’t knowing. And I’m done playing cautious.
I pick up the phone and type out a short message. No fluff. No explanation. Just coordinates. Directions to my penthouse.
“Come alone. Midnight.” I hit send.
He’ll come. Because in his world, I didn’t just save his life—I branded it. And now I want to see what he bleeds when I press on the wound.
I slide the phone across the counter and let the silence settle back in. This time, it doesn’t feel so quiet. It feels like the start of something. Something I can’t take back.
I sink into the couch with the weight of too many ghosts, my knees pulled up close, arms draped loosely around them.
The city keeps breathing outside the glass, indifferent.
I watch headlights blur below, tracing lines like arteries across the skyline.
Everything in motion. Everything pretending it’s alive.
Half an hour passes. Maybe more. I don’t check the time. My mind won’t stop circling back to that night. To my mother’s voice. Her eyes.
I clench my jaw, lean forward, and rest my elbows on my knees, phone in hand. The screen stays dark. No new messages. No calls.
Until it lights up and buzzes once.
Reception. Right on time.
I stand and walk to the counter, pressing the green icon. “Yes?”
A pause. Then the receptionist’s voice crackles through the speaker—professional but cautious. “Ms. Morelli, there’s… a gentleman here. Says he’s expected. Asks to be sent up.”
He doesn’t need to say his name. His presence speaks loud enough.
I glance toward the doors, already feeling him before he’s even stepped inside.
“Let him up.” My voice is steady. Clipped. Controlled. “I’ll be waiting.”
“Of course, Ms. Morelli.”
The line goes dead. I drop the phone onto the counter and move toward the front door. My pulse doesn’t speed up, but I feel it in the silence. Heavy. Expectant. Like something’s about to shift.
I open the door and lean my shoulder against the frame, arms crossed, eyes locked on the elevator at the end of the hall. The floor’s quiet except for the faint hum of the lights overhead.
Then… the soft chime of the elevator.
I straighten slightly. The doors part slowly, and there he is.
Rafael Romanov.
Casual clothes, but he still manages to look sharp. Controlled. Like every line of his body knows exactly what power feels like. Dark jeans. Black t-shirt that fits too well. A jacket slung over one shoulder like he barely had to think about it.
His eyes land on me immediately. Calm. Cold. Curious. And something else.
He steps out, each movement slow, deliberate—like he’s entering enemy territory but already owns the ground he’s walking on.
I don’t move. I don’t speak. I just watch him come closer. Because I asked for this.
Each step he takes toward me echoes in the corridor like it has no right being this quiet between two people like us. His presence doesn’t fill the space—it consumes it. Absorbs the light. Commands the shadows.
When he reaches me, he doesn’t say anything right away. His eyes move slowly—up, down. Assessing. Reading. But not like most men. Rafael doesn’t look at me like I’m something he wants.
He looks at me like I’m something he can’t quite solve. And that’s the difference.
“I’m here,” he says finally, voice low and smooth, like the quiet before a gunshot. “You gonna tell me why?”
I meet his stare. “Not at the door.” I turn, walk back inside without checking if he follows—because I know he does.
I close the door behind him and flick the lock into place, the soft click slicing through the silence like a threat neither of us has voiced yet.
He doesn’t stop at the threshold. He walks in like he owns the place—like caution is for men who fear what waits behind locked doors.
I don’t ask him to sit. But he does anyway. Sprawls on my couch like he’s been here before. Like he belongs.
His arm drapes along the back cushion, his fingers tapping once—twice. He looks out the window at the skyline, then back at me, his gaze unapologetically slow as it moves across my face.
“Should I be expecting gunfire this time?” he asks, dry amusement flickering behind his words.
I tilt my head. “You say that like you didn’t enjoy it.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “I enjoyed not getting shot.”
I lean against the counter, arms crossed. “Still plenty of time for that.”
A slow smirk tugs at the edge of his mouth, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’re unpredictable, Isabella. ”
He says my name like he’s still tasting it. Like he’s only just letting himself use it.
“And you’re used to people following orders,” I say.
“That would explain why you’re so… exhausting.”
His words are sharp, but not cruel. Just honest.
“You came anyway.”
He shrugs, eyes narrowing slightly. “I owed you that much.”
A beat passes between us. Thick. Tense. A dance of silence and heat neither of us is willing to lead.
“You don’t like being owed,” I say.
“No. I don’t.”
“Then why come?”
He watches me for a long second. “Because in my world, saving someone’s life means something. Doesn’t matter if I trust you. Doesn’t even matter if I like you.”
“You don’t?” I raise a brow.
His eyes gleam with something unreadable. “I haven’t decided yet.”
I push off the counter, slowly walking toward him, but stopping short of the couch. I don’t sit. I just stand there, letting the silence build again. Letting him feel the questions I’m not ready to ask. Not yet.
His gaze lifts to meet mine, slow and unblinking. “You dragged me here just to look at me?”
“No,” I murmur. “But I knew you’d come just the same.”
He leans back deeper into the couch like he’s trying to see right through me. “Careful, kisa. That kind of arrogance will get you in trouble.”
I smile, sharp and unrepentant. “Only if I care about the consequences.”
The air stretches between us again. Tight. Tense. But not explosive. And neither of us moves. Because this is the game. And neither one of us plays to lose.
His body sinks deeper into the couch like this is just another night, just another game. One hand draped over the backrest, but it’s the way he looks like he belongs there. The way he leans like he doesn’t have a care in the world, and still somehow manages to carry the weight of one.
His shirt pulls slightly as he moves. The fabric bunches, riding up just enough to expose the edge of skin.
And there it is.
A scar. Thick. Pale. Ugly. Jagged at the ends like it wasn’t clean or fast—like it wasn’t meant to be.
My eyes catch on it for a second too long. And he notices.
He doesn’t shift to cover it. He doesn’t smirk. He just watches me watch it. Then finally, he speaks. “Ugly, isn’t it?”
I blink, drag my gaze back to his. But I don’t answer. I walk around the couch instead, slow, calm, and lower myself into the chair opposite him. Crossing one leg over the other, I rest my elbow on the armrest and let my chin fall into my palm.
My voice is quieter this time. “How’d you get it?”
He tilts his head at me, the faintest flicker of amusement dancing at the corner of his mouth. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“You came to my home.”
He leans forward just enough for the shadows to catch in the hollows of his face. “Fair.” Then he leans back again, arm sliding lazily over the top of the couch. “My mother stabbed me when I was nine.”
The words are said so flatly, so easily, that for a second I think I misheard him.
“She aimed for my heart.” He lifts two finger and taps on the scar. “Still bled like a bitch.”
My stomach coils, but I keep my expression still. Cold. “You said your mother?”
He nods once. “Natalya Romanova. Married to my father for sixteen years. Loved him, hated him, I don’t know. I stopped caring about the reasons the day she sank a blade in my side and vanished like a ghost.”
He shifts forward slightly, elbows on his knees now. “I haven’t seen her since. No calls. No note. No closure. Just steel in my flesh and silence.”
There’s no hatred in his voice. No bitterness. Just… nothing. And somehow, that’s worse.
I watch him for a long moment, unsure what he wants me to say. Maybe he’s waiting for pity.
But he should know better. I don’t do pity.
“You lived,” I say finally.
He meets my eyes. “Unfortunately.”
I don’t answer. There’s nothing else to say. And he seems to respect that.
A thick quiet settles between us, heavy with the weight of stories neither of us are ready to tell.
And then slowly, without a word, I reach into my pocket. My fingers brush the cool metal. The delicate chain slides between them, and I wrap it once around my knuckles before pulling it out.
The gold glints in the soft light of the room. I don’t look at it. I’ve seen it a thousand times. I could trace every line of the photo inside with my eyes closed.
Instead, I slide it across the table between us, the movement slow and deliberate. It stops just short of his hand. He doesn’t reach for it. Not yet. But he looks down.
And I speak before he can. “Do you know them?”
He doesn’t move at first. Just stares at the necklace like it’s something alive. Like it might bite.
Then finally, with the same slow precision he uses when holding a weapon, he reaches for it. The chain coils between his fingers as he lifts it, lets it dangle for a beat before easing it open with a flick of his thumb.
The tiny photo inside catches the light.
My mother. My father. Both smiling. Frozen in a time I can barely remember.
I watch his eyes as he studies it. There’s a flicker of something there. Recognition maybe? No—just concentration. And then… nothing.
His expression stays unreadable. Detached.