"He's alive," I interrupt quietly, my voice flat. I feel the cold indifference return when I speak his name. "Barely. Alessandro did exactly what he was trained to do. He turned Danny over to the feds before I could get near him. He'll stay in custody until they're done tearing his world apart—and then we'll see what justice is left for us."
She exhales, eyes closing in relief and grief all at once. Relief for her safety, grief for the brother she lost long before I met her. "The Russians?"
"They'll get what's coming," I say darkly, the promise a cold, hard knot in my gut. "I'll burn every last shipment, every last asset, every last connection they have in this city to the ground. They took two days of your life. They hurt you. That debt will be paid in full."
Her hand finds mine, fingers weak but insistent, curling around my thumb. "Dante. Enough blood. Please."
I look at her—the bruises, the fragile rise and fall of her chest beneath the sheet, the quiet plea for peace in her voice—and I want to promise her that I will stop. I want to promise her that our world can be quiet, clean. I want to mean it.
But I've lived in this world too long to lie.
"I'll make sure they can't touch us again," I say instead, meeting her gaze honestly. "That is my only oath right now."
She doesn't argue. She leans into my palm when I cup her cheek, her eyes softening. She knows me. She knows the only way out of this is through the fire.
For a long time, neither of us speaks. The world narrows to the simple, essential sound of our breathing. Her head slips into my lap, and I stroke my thumb through her hair, each soft movement grounding me more than any confession ever could.
"I'm sorry," I whisper after a while, the guilt heavy and real. "For everything. For not protecting you sooner. For ever doubting you."
She smiles faintly, a beautiful, bruised curve of her lip. "You did. You found me. That's all that matters."
A few days later, the penthouse hums with quiet, cautious life again. The tension has broken, replaced by a strange, healing sense of normalcy.
I'm standing in the hallway when the big moment happens.
Sofia bursts into the room when Isabella finally wakes for real, her curls bouncing, her small body an explosion of motion. Her smile is too bright for words. She climbs carefully onto the bed, maneuvering around Isabella's head, and wraps her arms around her as gently as her little body allows.
"I told you," Sofia whispers against Isabella's shoulder, her voice muffled with pure relief. "I told you if you were ever lost, he would find you. You just had to wait."
Isabella's voice trembles when she answers, burying her face in Sofia's hair. "You did,Principessa. You were right."
I stand in the doorway, watching them—my daughter and the woman who somehow put my world back together just by existing. The sight of Isabella holding Sofia, the ease, the simple, radiant love between them, is the only balm for the raw wound in my chest.
And for the first time in years, the hollow ache in my core feels like something I can live with. It feels like love.
That night, after Sofia's asleep and the city glows soft and silver beyond the windows, Isabella finally leaves the bed. She is still stiff, still tender, but she is whole.
She leans back against me on the long, velvet couch, wrapped loosely in one of my oversized, crisp white shirts. The low, steady hum of her breathing against my chest is like a secondary heartbeat, a beautiful, essential rhythm I never want to stop hearing.
"I don't know what happens now," she murmurs, her voice barely audible.
I press my lips to her temple, inhaling the clean scent of her skin. "Whatever you want. You're not a prisoner here anymore. You're free to leave."
She turns slightly, twisting in my arms, her soft, serious eyes meeting mine in the muted light. "Maybe I never was."
Something in me cracks wide open. The last vestiges of fear and control crumble.
The kiss we share isn't about fire or possession this time—it's about finding something worth saving in the ashes. It is slow. Careful. Real. It is a vow.
Her fingers curl in my shirt, pulling me closer. My hands find her waist, tracing the shape of someone I thought I'd lost forever. The fear of that loss fuels me now, pushing away everything but the need to feel her skin against mine.
I lift her easily, carrying her back to the sanctuary of the bed, the clean sheets already cool against her skin.
I shed my clothes quickly, urgently, needing the weight of my presence to reassure me she is real. I don't enter her space; I settle beside her, hovering. My gaze traces the fading yellow and blue bruise on her cheek, the bandage on her temple—the physical proof of my failure to protect her.
I lower my head, not to kiss, but to worship.
My lips find the smooth skin of her shoulder, tracing the curve of her collarbone. I move down her throat, avoiding the vulnerable place where her pulse still hammers fast. This isn't about my release; it's an act of thanksgiving and adoration. Every touch is a silent apology, a desperate prayer that she remains whole.
