Page 131 of The Cost of Silence

“Nico,” I say, and the name tastes like guilt.

He’s going to blame himself. Of course he is. He put Rossi with me. He let me leave. He’s been trying to close every door, and the bullet still found a crack.

But standing there, staring at the faint dark line on the SUV’s door where the round punched through the panel, all I can think is that I’m the common denominator. The attacks, the rat, the shots today—it’s my name they’re circling, my face they used in the paper, my presence that turns every errand into a potential ambush.

“We have a mole,” I say, more to myself than to Marco.

He doesn’t answer, but his jaw flexes.

“They knew we were leaving,” I go on, brain racing ahead of the shock. “They knew the car, the route. It was too clean. Two blocks from the building, perfect line of sight, no traffic blocking them. That’s not random. Somebody with access is talking.”

“Boss will handle it,” Marco says. “You don’t have to worry about that part.”

“I’m already worrying about that part,” I snap, the edge in my own voice surprising me. “I can’t not worry about that part. It’s literally my job to worry about the patterns.”

He looks at me for a long second, then nods once. “Then help him worry smarter when we get upstairs. Come on, let’s get you back to the penthouse.”

34.Isabella

We climb backinto the SUV. The interior smells like blood and fear. The seat where Rossi sat is a patchwork of dark stains. My handprints are smeared across the leather, ghostly and sticky. My hands still covered in his blood.

I stare at them all the way back.

The drive to the penthouse takes ten years and four minutes.

By the time we reach the garage, my phone has buzzed six times with Nico’s name. I couldn’t answer in the chaos; my hands were busy, my brain was busy, and some part of me knew that if I heard his voice while I was elbow-deep in Rossi’s blood, I’d lose the fragile grip I had on myself.

We pull into the designated spot. The moment the engine cuts, the garage door on the private elevator slides open and Nico is there, flanked by two guards. His tie is gone, his shirt sleeves rolled, eyes black as a storm.

He’s at my door before Marco can even reach for the handle.

It yanks open and cold air rushes in. Nico’s hands are on me immediately, firm and careful at the same time, one at my elbow, one around my waist as if he expects my bones to give out.

“Are you hurt?” he demands, gaze sweeping from my face down to my chest, my hands, my legs, like he can will any injuries to reveal themselves.

“I’m fine,” I manage. “It’s not my blood.”

His jaw tightens. “Rossi?”

“They took him to St. Luke’s,” I say. Saying it out loud makes my throat ache. “Side hit. It looked bad. I tried to stop the bleeding. They said…” I have to swallow. “They said we got to him fast.”

His fingers flex on my arm, then loosen, as if he’s reining himself back from some edge.

“What happened?” he asks, voice low and controlled in a way that feels far more dangerous than shouting.

“We were two blocks out,” I say. The words come in careful pieces because if I try to rush them, I’ll fall apart. “Shots from the sidewalk. First hit the door, second the window, third came low through the panel and caught him. He shoved me down before I even realized what was happening.”

He absorbs it in silence, his eyes gone flat and cold.

Behind him, the door opens again and Adi steps inside, phone still in his hand, tie askew, expression shuttered but worried. “I’ve got her,” he says quietly, reading his brother’s face better than anyone.

Nico nods once, sharp. “Take her upstairs. Get her cleaned up. Then write everything down while it’s still fresh.”

“I can go to the hospital,” I say. “I should be there.”

“You should be alive,” Nico counters. “And you’ll be more useful to him and to me if you’re not sitting in a waiting room covered in his blood.”

He’s not wrong. I hate that he’s not wrong.