Page 26 of The Cost of Silence

And now he’s taking me to see what’s left of my life.

I follow him to the elevator, pain humming beneath my ribs, heart too loud in my ears.

His hand hovers near my lower back.

Not touching.

Just there.

Close enough that I feel the warmth of it.

Close enough that, for one dangerous moment, it feels like safety.

And I don’t know what scares me more, the fire that destroyed my home or the man trying so hard not to touch me as he leads me into the morning light.

9.Nico

The elevator doorsslide shut and the city starts to rise around us, steel and glass falling away beneath our feet.

Isabella stands beside me, pressed into the corner like she’s holding herself together by leaning on the wall. Her arms are wrapped around her middle, not quite hugging herself, one hand curved protectively over her ribs. Her reflection in the mirrored panel looks pale and drawn, her bruised cheek an ugly splash of color against too-soft skin.

I should be watching the floor numbers. Instead, I watch that reflection.

She’s quiet. Too quiet for Isabella Romano. No barbed comments, no pushback, just the kind of silence that feels like it’s vibrating from the inside out.

“You took the pills I left,” I say, more to break that silence than anything.

Her gaze flicks to mine in the glass. “You mean the mysterious bedside drugs? Very trusting of me, I know.”

“They were prescription-strength anti-inflammatories.” I shove my hands into my pockets to resist the urge to adjust her scarf so it covers more of her throat. “I don’t poison people I plan on interrogating.”

Her mouth tips the smallest fraction. “Good to know.”

The elevator chimes and the doors open into the lobby. Security nods as we pass, their eyes flicking over Isabella with the kind of professional curiosity that has my shoulders tightening. I give them a look that says don’t even think about it. Their gazes snap back to neutral.

Outside, the air is knife-edge cold, the kind that cuts through suit fabric and lungs. Isabella shivers once, quick, almost invisible. I guide her toward the car; we’re taking my SUV today as it will be easier for her to get into. Her steps are careful, each one sending a tiny ripple of strain across her features.

I open the passenger door for her. She hesitates for half a heartbeat, then lowers herself in, teeth sinking into her bottom lip as her ribs protest.

“Slowly,” I say quietly.

“I’m trying.” Her breath hitches. “My body disagrees.”

I wait until she’s settled, then close the door and circle around to the driver’s side. By the time I slide behind the wheel, the car is already warm, engine purring smoothly. I pull into traffic with more gentleness than usual, every start and stop measured.

She stares straight ahead at first, fingers twisted in the hem of her sweater. I can see a faint tremor in her hands. Not enough to be obvious, but enough that it crawls under my skin.

“You don’t have to be strong in front of me,” I say, surprising both of us.

She turns her head slowly. “You don’t exactly inspire emotional vulnerability.”

“Good.” I keep my eyes on the road. “I’m not your therapist.”

“But you left pills by my bed.” Her voice is soft, almost curious. “That’s kind of therapist-adjacent.”

My grip tightens around the wheel. I should never have left those damn pills; it was too telling. “Pain stops people from thinking clearly. I need you thinking clearly.”

“For your answers,” she says.