Page 35 of The Cost of Silence

“That’s not how journalism works.”

“It is when you’re living under my roof.”

We lock eyes.

Control versus stubborn independence. Fear versus pride.

Matteo breaks the tension by sliding a bread roll toward me. “Eat. You both look like you’re about to start a rumble in the jungle or fuck on the kitchen island, and I’d prefer not to vomit in my mouth.”

I take the bread, mostly so I don’t say something I’ll regret.

The food disappears slowly. Conversations thin out. The adrenaline that’s been propping me up all morning starts to ebb, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion that seeps into my muscles.

When I push my plate away, my hands are shaking. I grip the edge of the counter to hide it.

Nico notices anyway. “You’re done,” he says. Not unkindly. “You need sleep.”

“I’m fine,” I start to say, but even I can hear the lie in it.

He comes around the island, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. “You’ve had your home burnt, your body beaten, your life threatened, and half of your world turned upside down in twenty-four hours. You’re not fine, Isabella. And that’s okay. Go rest.”

The words land softer than I expect. They’re not condescending. Just… firm. Grounded.

“Come on,” he adds, voice dropping. “I’ll walk you to your room.”

I almost tell him I know the way. I almost tell him I don’t need an escort down his pristine hallway.

But the truth is, I don’t want to walk it alone.

So I slide off the stool and let him fall into step beside me. The brothers stay in the kitchen, their voices a murmur as we move away.

The guest room feels different this time, less strange, more like a temporary version of safety. Nico walks in first, flipping on the lamp by the bed so the light is soft, not harsh.

“Careful,” he says quietly as I lower myself onto the mattress.

My ribs protest, but the bedding is cool and smooth against my skin. He reaches for the blanket, shakes it out once, and settles it over me with a care that makes something sting behind my eyes.

This is stupid. I’m not a child. I don’t need tucking in but when his fingers brush my shoulder through the fabric, something inside me untangles just a little.

“You should rest while we talk things through,” he says. “We’ll keep it quiet.”

“You really think I can sleep while the three of you plan my fate in the next room?” I try to make it a joke. It comes out thinner than I mean.

His mouth tips in the barest hint of a smile. “Your fate isn’t up for debate. Your safety is. That’s non-negotiable.”

“That’s very mafia of you.”

He huffs out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Have a rest, Isabella.”

I turn onto my side, carefully, facing away from him so he won’t see if the emotions finally leak out. The pillow smells faintly of cedar and laundry detergent. My eyes burn.

He lingers in the doorway. I feel him looking at me, the weight of his attention a solid, strange comfort.

“Hey, Nico?” I say softly.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For… all of it. Even the bossiness.”