Page 126 of The Cost of Silence

“I love you,” I whisper into her hair. The words are easier every time I say them, even though I haven’t said them to her while she was awake yet. “Ti amo, Isabella. More than I have any right to.”

She doesn’t stir, but her fingers find mine in her sleep, tangling, holding.

“I’m so sorry this happened,” I breathe. “I’m sorry they keep dragging you into a war you never asked for. I’m sorry we didn’t end this sooner. But it ends now. I swear it. I don’t care if it’s Orlov or Domenico or some rat bastard in between them. I’ll burn every bridge we have to, as long as you walk away from this alive.”

My throat feels tight.

I press a kiss to the back of her neck, the place that always makes her shiver when she’s awake.

“You’re mine,” I say softly. “And I protect what’s mine.”

Her breathing evens out, deep and slow.

Eventually, with my nose in her hair, my arm locked around her, and war plans lining up one by one in the back of my mind, sleep finally comes.

It’s not restful.

But it’s enough to get me to morning.

And morning is when we stop waiting for the next hit and start swinging back.

33.Isabella

The next morning,the building feels like it’s grown a spine made of men with guns.

There are more of them, that’s obvious even before coffee; different faces at the elevator, new shadows in the lobby, an extra pair of eyes just inside the penthouse door. They’re not overtly menacing, just quietly present, the way big cats in a zoo look like they’re politely tolerating the fence.

Nico walks me through it while I eat toast I don’t really taste.

“Two on the floor, two in the lobby, rotating pairs on the garage level,” he says, gesturing to camera feeds on his office screens. “We’ve added another vehicle to the pool, switched up the plates, and rerouted the path to the office and back. No patterns, no routine, no easy target.”

“With all due respect,” I say, “Iamthe easy target.”

He doesn’t argue, which is both validating and depressing.

“That’s why you don’t go anywhere without one of us,” he says, tone absolute. “Today it’s Rossi. I have to be in the office for a few hours, and I trust him to handle anything that comes close to you.”

Rossi stands just inside the doorway, as if he appeared when his name was said. Dark jacket, dark jeans, expression carvedout of stone. If statues came with concealed weapons and a terrifying knowledge of kill shots, they’d look like him.

“I need to go out,” I remind Nico, stuffing down another bite of toast because if I stop, my stomach will realize it’s nauseous. “Pharmacy run, remember? My prescriptions.”

“You could stay in,” Nico says.

“I could.” I lift my chin. “Or we could agree that a ten-minute drive with your head of security and enough bulletproof plating to stop an apocalypse is a reasonable compromise between ‘reckless’ and ‘bubble wrap’.”

The muscle in his jaw jumps.

Rossi, mercifully, steps in. “We’ll take the SUV,” he says. “Direct to the pharmacy, direct back. No stops. No detours.”

“We’re not hitting a drive-thru?” I ask. “No contraband muffins?”

His mouth almost moves. “Sorry, ma’am.”

“It’s Isabella,” I say automatically.

He nods. “Isabella, then. Get your coat.”

I put my mug in the sink, pull on my coat and scarf, and let Nico fuss with the buttons like I’m five. He adjusts the collar, like the extra fraction will turn it into armor.