Chapter 11
ISABELLA
T he sky was ink black by the time I pulled the sheer cover-up over my bikini and stepped outside. The air was thick with heat, but not suffocating—just warm enough to cling to your skin like a second layer. It felt like the whole world was sweating secrets, and I was walking through them.
Kellan’s message buzzed on my phone hours ago, telling me to come down to the pool because he and Ash were bored. I’d ignored it at first. But boredom and curiosity won, so here I was.
My bare feet padded softly along the marble floors of the villa, the sound echoing like a whisper behind me.
The cover-up I wore wasn’t doing much to hide the deep red bikini beneath it, and maybe that was the point.
I tied the sheer fabric at my waist anyway, more out of habit than modesty.
The knot rested just below the golden chain around my hips—delicate, feminine, deadly.
I took a turn down a hallway I hadn’t seen before, curiosity tugging at me. The resort was sprawling and silent, a little too silent for how many people were here. Somewhere in the distance, I heard music—a low, lazy beat that pulsed like a heartbeat.
Then I saw him. Yuri.
He was walking toward me like he owned the air. A half-empty drink in one hand, a blunt in the other, shirt open, not a care in the world. If chaos had a face and a smirk, it’d be his.
“Well, well,” he said, coming to a slow stop, gaze flicking down and then up with zero shame. “If it isn’t the dagger queen herself.” His voice was smooth, layered with humor, like he was always one second away from laughing at something only he found funny.
I raised a brow, not stopping. “Is that what we’re calling me now?”
He took a long drag, exhaled smoke in a perfect ring, and grinned. “I mean, I’ve seen women stab men in the back metaphorically. You? You went literal. Iconic.”
I fought the smile threatening to pull at my lips. “Didn’t know I had a fan club.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he winked. “You do now.”
He flicked the blunt away and stepped beside me, gesturing grandly. “Come on. You’re new to the castle. Let me give you a tour before you get bored and start carving your initials into someone else.”
I didn’t answer, just started walking. He fell into step beside me like he’d always been there. Like the two of us were old friends instead of strangers orbiting the same storm.
As we moved past the pool—glowing blue under the moonlight—I spotted Kellan and Ash lounging nearby, drinks in hand. Kellan lifted his glass when he saw us, but didn’t interrupt. He was used to me doing my own thing by now.
Yuri led me further, pointing out rooms like we were on a tour at some twisted amusement park.
“That’s where Nikolai hides when he’s pretending to work. Don’t knock unless you want a gun aimed at your forehead. And this—” He gestured toward a closed-off terrace surrounded by heavy drapes. “—is where Rafael broods and glares out into the night like some Bratva Batman.”
I snorted. “You make a lot of jokes. That your thing?”
He gave me a look, half amused, half serious. “Only way to survive this world with a little bit of your soul intact. Or maybe I just like watching people squirm when they’re not sure if I’m kidding or planning to kill them.”
I stopped walking. “And which am I?”
He turned to face me, stepping just a little too close. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
We stared at each other, the tension stretching until I looked away, pretending it didn’t shake me.
When we reached the far edge of the resort, he stopped beside the pool, now glowing a deeper shade under the stars. The music was louder here, someone had turned it up.
Yuri raised his drink again and smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Rafael’s good at building walls, you know. Around people. Around himself. But you? You’re a little crack in the stone, Isabella. You let in light, and sometimes light is dangerous.”
I looked at him sharply. “That supposed to mean something?”
He shrugged. “Only that I like watching you screw with his head. Not many people can do that. And I find it… inspiring.”
Before I could answer, footsteps approached behind us—heavier, more measured. Rafael.
He appeared beside Nikolai like a shadow pulling itself into shape, wearing a dark shirt rolled at the sleeves and an unreadable expression. He took in the scene—me, Yuri, the pool—and something flickered in his gaze. Disapproval? Amusement? I couldn’t tell.
Yuri grinned. “Ah, speak of the devil.”
Rafael’s voice was calm, low. “Enjoying the resort?”
I looked at him, but didn’t smile. “So far. Your people have excellent taste.”
He didn’t answer. Just studied me for a beat too long, before glancing at Yuri. “Don’t corrupt her,” he said flatly.
Yuri laughed, raising his glass in mock salute. “No promises, Pakhan.”
I stood still between them, caught in the crackle of something that felt like fire and ice colliding.
And I couldn’t help but think—Cartagena wasn’t the danger.
We were.
Yuri exhaled next to me, “I’m bored’, and without a second thought he took my hand and led me away. Away from Rafael. Away from all the noise, and I let him.
The burn of the Caribbean night settled on my skin as Yuri led me through the stone path, his hand still wrapped around mine.
The bottle of rum swung casually from his other fingers, its amber liquid catching the moonlight.
I didn’t know where he was taking me. I didn’t ask.
His presence was strange—dangerous, yes—but not in the way Rafael’s was.
Yuri didn’t feel like a predator lurking in the shadows.
He was a storm in daylight. Loud. Laughing.
But still capable of drowning you if you weren’t careful.
My gaze dipped to his knuckles as we passed a flickering light. Blood. Dried, dark red smeared faintly across the skin. I tugged lightly at his hand. “You’re bleeding.”
He looked down at it, then smirked. “Oh, that? Just a disagreement with a wall that had a mouth.”
I arched a brow. “And did the wall survive?”
“No.” He threw me a grin. “But it learned to shut the fuck up.”
We stopped in front of a door on the far end of the estate—tucked into the stone wall, nearly invisible unless you knew it was there. He took a key from a chain around his neck and twisted it into the lock.
“I thought you were taking me to see something fun,” I muttered.
“Oh, I am.”
The door creaked open, and the temperature of the air seemed to shift.
The room wasn’t large, but the way it was arranged made it feel like a shrine to violence.
Weapons lined the walls—rifles, glocks, knives of every size and make, some so beautiful they looked more ceremonial than practical.
Hand-carved batons. A whip I didn’t want to ask about.
Shelves of ammunition. Everything organized, curated like art.
Yuri stepped in and reached for the switch. A soft, red glow bathed the room in bloodlight. I didn’t step forward. Not yet.
“You can tell a lot about a man by how he kills,” he said, setting the rum down and turning to me. “And more about a woman by how she survives.”
I swallowed, my voice low. “So what does this room say about Rafael?”
Yuri chuckled, slow and full of heat. “That he’s still alive.”
He leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms. “There was a girl once. Back when I was seventeen. She died in front of me. I had one chance to kill the man who did it, and I took it. But that wasn’t the end.
Turns out revenge doesn’t feel as good as it should.
Sometimes, it just…sticks. Like it rots in your bones. ”
I stepped in then, slowly, my eyes catching on a long-bladed dagger etched with Cyrillic along the handle. “Russia?”
“I served there. Military. Special unit.” He tilted his head. “They taught us how to be ghosts. Then Rafael found me, taught me how to be feared.”
Our eyes locked. “You don’t talk about that girl a lot, do you?” I asked.
He didn’t answer right away. Then his voice softened. “Only when I find someone who reminds me of her.”
I stared at him, unsure of what I was hearing. And then, in the silence, he asked, “Can I braid your hair?”
“What?”
“Just a small part. It’s a thing. A…ritual.”
I hesitated, but nodded slowly. He stepped behind me, his fingers surprisingly gentle as he separated a thin section near the nape of my neck. I felt something thread between the strands—soft, but foreign.
“What is that?”
“Thread,” he said. “Red. In my village, it meant you were going to spill blood for the first time.”
“Spill…?”
He smiled faintly. “Not always literal. But sometimes it was. Either way, it marked a crossing. A before and after.”
I swallowed hard, heart thudding in my chest as his fingers tightened the braid, tying it off with a small knot. “You’re saying I haven’t crossed yet?”
He stepped in front of me again, eyes darker now. “I’m saying you’re close,” he murmured.
And somehow, I believed him.
The door was still ajar, the scent of rum clinging to the air between us like a silent witness.
Yuri leaned his back against one of the glass cabinets, his arms crossed as he watched me, but there was nothing lazy or flirtatious in his stare now.
Something about the way his eyes had shifted—how the smirk had faded just a little—told me he wasn’t just here to entertain.
He was seeing me.
Not the way Rafael did. Not the way Kellan or Ash did. This wasn’t possessive or protective or even curious. It was something darker. Sharper.
And yet… it didn’t make me want to run.
I stayed standing near the rack of knives, the dim light catching off the red thread braided through my hair. I could still feel the slight tug of
it, a phantom weight against my scalp. As if it meant something more than I wanted it to.
Yuri took a sip of the rum, eyes not leaving me. “So, Belladonna…” he murmured, using the name like it was a secret. “What do you think of your little welcome gift?”