Page 91 of Accidental Alliance

Tears well up in my eyes. “I’m not leaving you behind.”

His expression twists, and for one unbearable moment, I see my father in him. Not his face, exactly, but that old Russo authority that I’ve missed so desperately. It’s a ruthless love that expects obedience, demands it, because survival matters more than sentiment.

It always has in the eyes of my family.

Just as it does now.

“You are a mother before you are a niece,” he rasps. “Act like it.”

The words hit me like a slap to the face. Pain blooms in my chest, bright and savage, as I stare up at him through the tears threatening to fall.

He is right.

I know he is, and I hate him for it.

I want to save him because he is the only piece of my father that I have left. I want to tear these cuffs apart with my teeth and drag him out with us and make every Conti in this safehouse choke on the fact that they failed to finish what they started.

But my first duty is standing twenty feet away with his eyes squeezed shut because I told him not to look.

Giovano’s face softens the moment he sees me understand. “Your father would be proud of you.”

Tears slip down my cheeks. “Don’t you dare make this sound like a goodbye.”

He gives me a look so full of grief, I know before he speaks what he is about to say. “Everything in our world is goodbye eventually.”

A sound outside the room snaps both our heads toward the door.

Footsteps.

I turn quickly and shove the metal piece into his hand. I don’t know if there is any point in arming him to defend himself, but I can’t stand the idea of leaving him completely defenseless. I lean in close to wrap my arms around him quickly, hugging him.

For eight years I have trained myself not to mourn what I could not afford to carry. I buried Isabella Russo beneath Marina Hayes along with the memories of my father because every one of them came with teeth. Giovano leaning against me makes all of it rise to the surface once again.

I am not the woman standing in front of him, but rather, the little girl who used to sit by my father’s desk while he and Giovano argued strategy over maps and documents. The teenager who pretended not to eavesdrop while they discussed alliances and betrayals. The daughter standing beside her father’s grave with Giovano’s hand heavy on her shoulder, the only thing keeping me upright when grief tried to pull me under.

He is not supposed to be here like this, broken in a plastic-lined room still trying to save me.

His bound shoulder shifts hard against mine, shoving me back with what little strength he has left. “Go, Isabella. Out the window.”

I want to say I will come back for him. I want to believe there is a version of this escape plan where I get my son out of this place and still drag my uncle out of this slaughter room alive. But I am my father’s daughter. I know when a checkmate is about to be called.

My throat tightens until it feels impossible to swallow.

I step through the plastic again and grab Matteo’s hand. He stumbles when I yank him against me, my hand coming up to curl around the back of his head to press his face against my body before he can open his eyes too fully and see the full extent of Giovano's injuries.

Plastic crackles beneath our feet as we move carefully through the room to the other side of it. The sound is too loud, but then again, everything is now. My breathing, Matteo’s, Giovano’s ragged inhale behind us, the distant movement of men in the hallway outside, all of it grows closer with each passing second.

I feel my uncle’s eyes bore into us from behind.

I shove the last sheet of plastic aside when I reach the other side, and sure enough, there is a window. Its warped wooden frame is chipped in places, the window dulled by dust, creating a frosted glass effect. I let go of Matteo long enough to test it. The frame groans but does not move. Panic crawls up my throat.

Behind us, Giovano coughs wetly.

“Latch,” he grits out.

My eyes dart to the side. A tiny rusted latch, almost invisible beneath grime and a strip of clear tape sealing the frame together, is visible. I dig my nail along the tape to peel it away from the frame, the tackiness sticking to my fingers.

The footsteps beyond the room grow louder, following a distant shout.