Page 145 of The Cost of Silence

“I promised her I’d keep Isabella safe,” I say. “I failed. She needs to hear it from me, not from the news.”

“And what will you tell her?”

“That I’m going to get her back,” I say. “Or die trying.”

The words are not a figure of speech.

They’re a decision.

Matteo nods once, understanding. “Then let’s get to work, fratello,” he says.

Because Domenico wanted us to step up.

He just forgot that when Mancinis step up, we don’t always do it on the side we started on.

38.Isabella

The world comes backin pieces. First, there’s the ache at the base of my skull, a heavy, throbbing pulse that makes my stomach roll. Then the taste in my mouth, chemical and cotton-dry, like I’ve been breathing through a dirty rag. I try to swallow and realize my tongue feels too big.

Then there’s the bed.

It’s not Nico’s. That’s the first clear thought. The mattress is firmer, the sheets crisp in a way his never are because I insist on washing them with lavender softener. The pillow smells faintly of starch and old perfume.

I open my eyes.

The ceiling above me is high and ornate, pale plaster worked into curls and rosettes, the kind of craftsmanship you only see in old houses and expensive hotels. A chandelier hangs from the center, all muted gold and crystal drops, the light turned down low so they glow rather than glitter.

I push myself up on my elbows. My head protests. The room tilts and then rights itself.

It’s a beautiful bedroom, in that cold, curated way that says it belongs to no one and everyone at once. Tall windows with heavy drapes. A carved wardrobe. A dressing table with a three-panel mirror. The bed itself is huge, four posters, white quilt, too pristine to feel real.

The door is closed, no doubt locked from the other side.

There’s a faint hum somewhere in the distance, water in pipes maybe, or heating settling. No traffic. No city. Just a peaceful quiet, that gives the air a false tranquility.

Fear arrives like a late guest, trailing behind the details. My heart stutters in my chest as I take a few deep breaths to calm the wildly beating organ.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed. Someone has put shoes on me. My boots are laced neatly, my coat is gone, but I’m still in my sweater and jeans. My wrists are free. So are my ankles.

That feels wrong. Care and thought and yet I’m still here against my will. I know Domenico took me to use as a bargaining chip with Nico, but what does he want from him and, more importantly, what will Nico do to get me back? The thought of how he must be feeling, knowing I was taken right from his home, makes my nose sting with tears. No matter what his uncle said, I know Nico cares about me. If he lied, he had a reason. It doesn’t excuse it, and when I get out of here, he’s getting read the riot act, but I won’t overreact like a third-act break-up heroine from a book.

No, I’ll keep calm.

I stand slowly, padding across the rug to the window. Everything is taken care of, no dust in sight. The drapes are heavier up close; brocade patterned with vines. I edge one aside, just enough to look out.

What I see makes my breath catch. A large green lawn. Trees bare and ready for winter. A gravel drive loops past what looks like the corner of a stone building.

Beyond that, through the bare branches, there’s the faint glimmer of water, suggesting a pond or a small lake. There’sa low stone wall in the distance and, beyond that, a smear of rooftops and something taller, a church steeple maybe, with a cross at the top.

Wherever I am, it isn’t the city. It feels like a private estate of some kind.

I let the curtain fall. Is that good or bad? Probably bad. It means no passersby are going to help me. I’m on my own.

The door opens behind me and I startle, moving back from the window.

I turn and have a split second to register the two large men in the doorway before another figure steps between them, smiling like we’re old friends.

Mikhail Orlov. I recognize the Russian Mobster from pictures when I was doing my research for the article on ISM.