Page 10 of The Cost of Silence

Her pulse jumps, visible where her collar opens. I hate that I notice that too.

I turn before she can speak, already done with the conversation. Anger burns hot, close to the surface.

At the driver. At whoever sent them. At her for being careless. At myself for giving a damn.

By the time I reach my car, the anger’s cooled into focus. I pull out my phone. “Rossi,” I say when my head of security answers. “Romano. I want eyes on her. Starting now.”

A pause. “Is she a threat, sir?”

“Maybe.” I start the engine. “But she’s also bait.”

I hang up.

The engine hums low. Outside, the city’s nightlife is coming alive: horns, footsteps, the rush of another Friday night that’s going to get messy.

I should feel vindicated. Instead, I’m staring at the space in the street where that car almost hit her, watching her help the older woman on her way before she turns, scans the street, and then walks back the way she came, away from the direction of her apartment.

My jaw clenches so tight it hurts. I told her to go home. She defies me. I should be shocked, nobody defies me, but I find I’m not.

This was supposed to be simple. Why is nothing ever fucking simple?

4.Isabella

Saturday

The first thingI feel is the ache. Not the good kind from too little sleep and too much writing, the kind that lives in the joints, behind the knees, and in the tender skin of my palms.

When I sit up, the scrapes make themselves known, small reminders of last night’s chaos. My skin on my knees stings when my feet touch the floor, my hands throb as I brace myself against the mattress. I should’ve cleaned them properly, but exhaustion had won out over first aid.

I walk to the coffee machine and pop in a pod. The hum and click are steady, mechanical, comforting. When the first stream of espresso hits the cup, the smell fills the kitchen, strong and bitter, with that faint caramel edge. It smells like courage in liquid form.

For a moment, I just stand there, letting the steam touch my face. The city hums beyond the window, muffled traffic, a siren far away, the slow heartbeat of a Saturday morning. I should feel safe. I don’t. Not exactly.

The article’s already out there, a living thing in the world. People are reading it, talking about it, tearing it apart, or applauding it. I should feel proud, and I do, but pride has a way of sitting beside anxiety and pretending they’re friends. There’s the car that tried to run me down on the sidewalk, then my run-in with Nico Mancini and the shove from the train. I’ve opened a hornet’s nest, and the journalist in me is proud I’ve elicited that reaction, but the woman in me, the human being who isn’t big on physical threats or danger, is very uneasy.

My laptop glows from across the table, a single email waiting like a dare.

N. Mancini.

I didn’t open it yesterday. I don’t know why. Discipline, maybe. Pride. Fear.

Now, with my body aching and the memory of his hands pulling me out of the street still too vivid, I click.

Six words.

You don’t know what you’ve done.No greeting. No threat. Just... weight.

I read it again, even though I promised myself I wouldn’t. It shouldn’t make my stomach twist the way it does.

The man is impossible, controlled, dangerous, too sharp around the edges. He saved me, but it didn’t feel like safety. It felt like gravity. And when his arm was around me, when his voice hit low and furious right against my ear... my body had the nerve toreact.

I hate that. I hate that my pulse betrayed me for someone who looked at me like I was the enemy.

I shut the laptop and shove it away, trying to shake the memory off.

“Coffee first,” I mutter, taking a sip. The heat stings my tongue and grounds me. “Then the world.”

The apartment feels too quiet. I reach for the speaker and tap on my Christmas playlist. The first notes ofHave Yourself a Merry Little Christmasfill the room, low and scratchy from overuse. My dad used to play this on a beat-up vinyl every year, his voice off-key but full of warmth.