Worry.
That’s what it is.
And I hate it.
I shouldn’t care what happens to a man like Dante Moretti.
But I do.
I spend the next few hours doing exactly what I promised him I wouldn’t—connecting with the outside world.
My phone feels like freedom when I turn it on.
First, I call my dad.
He nearly cries with relief when he hears my voice. “Isabella, thank God. Are you safe?”
“I am,” I say softly. “I’m with someone… trustworthy.”
“Who?”
“I can’t say.”
He sighs heavily. “Your mother would lose her mind if she knew what you were putting me through.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.” But I hear the smile in his voice. “Just… come home when you can, figlia mia.”
Next is Danny.
“Isa,” he snaps the second he answers. “Where the hell are you?”
“I told Dad—I’m safe.”
“Safe? You disappeared! Your car’s still at your place, your editor said some guy showed up asking questions—”
“Danny,” I cut in, trying to keep calm, “I’m fine. Really.”
He exhales hard. “Then come home.”
“I can’t. Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m still working onmy story.”
Silence. Then, “You’re unbelievable.”
“It’s what I do.”
“What you do is get yourself killed for a headline!” His voice cracks. “Isa, please. Stop this before—”
“I can’t,” I whisper. “Not until I know the truth.”
He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like a prayer and hangs up.
I call my editor next. He’s calmer, but only barely.
