Page 113 of The Cost of Silence

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 Icanbe 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.”