Page 108 of The Cost of Silence

Rossi with you?

I text back: Outside. With Rossi. They’re letting us back in. Will call when I’m upstairs.

His reply is instant: Call. Don’t text.

I huff a weak laugh at that. Control freak.

The penthouse level opens into a quiet hallway.

No alarm. No smoke.

The building manager goes first, using his keycard to unlock the door. My heart thumps hard like a nervous rabbit.

Rossi steps in ahead of me, hand lifted slightly in that gesture that means stay.

I hover in the doorway, pulse roaring in my ears, while the firefighters do a quick sweep of the main areas. Kitchen. Living room. Hallway.

“All clear,” one of them calls back. “No heat signatures out of normal range.”

“See?” the building manager says nervously. “Likely a sensor malfunction. We’ll have maintenance check the system. No need to worry.”

Rossi’s gaze flicks to me. It’s not the same as saying don’t worry. It’s more like we’ll decide what this was ourselves.

“You can go back downstairs,” he tells them. “I’ll stay with Miss Romano.”

They leave, relief in every step.

The moment the door closes behind them, the atmosphere shifts. Rossi’s posture changes subtly, from professional escort to something sharper.

“Stay there,” he says quietly.

My skin prickles. “Rossi—”

“Please.”

It’s the please that shuts me up.

He moves through the space with military precision, eyes cutting like blades. Living room. Kitchen. Guest room. The bedroom.

He disappears down the hall, and I wrestle with myself. I want to follow. I want to be brave, to be in control of my own life, to not be the girl who hides in doorways waiting for men to tell her if the world is safe.

But the truth is, I’m scared.

And I’ve learned something, whether I like it or not: sometimes letting people protect you is its own kind of strength.

Rossi reappears a minute later, face even more blank than usual. “Isabella,” he says. “You should see this.”

My stomach plunges.

I follow him into the living room.

The first thing I notice is that nothing looks disturbed. The tree is still glowing. The couch cushion Letty fell asleep on yesterday is still rumpled. The blanket Nico wrapped around me last night is draped over the arm of the sofa.

For a second, I think maybe he’s being overly cautious.

Then I see the coffee table.

And the blood.