Page 30 of The Cost of Silence

“Temporary arrangement,” I say. “Until we know who’s behind this and how far they’re willing to go. My building is secure. Yours is currently on fire.”

She flinches at that, then glares. “You can’t keep me there like a… like a hostage.”

“I’m not tying you to the bed,” I say dryly. “Unless you insist on doing more stupid things. In which case, we can revisit.”

Her cheeks flush, eyes flashing. Good. Anger looks better on her than fear.

“I’m not helpless,” she says quietly. “I’ve taken care of myself for a long time.”

“I know.” I soften my tone, just a notch. “This isn’t about you being helpless. It’s about people using you to get to me. I won’t give them an easy shot.”

For a second, something like understanding flickers in her expression. Or maybe it’s recognition. We both know what it is to have our lives dictated by other people’s actions.

“Fine,” she says reluctantly. “For now.”

I nod once. “For now.”

I steer her back toward the car, my hand hovering near her lower back again. Not touching, but close enough that I could if she stumbled. She doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t.

As I open the passenger door for her, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I check the screen.

Rossi.

I answer with a clipped, “Talk.” As I walk towards the cops near the perimeter of the building.

“We got what we needed from our friend last night,” he says. “Name he dropped you’re not going to like.”

“I rarely do.” I glance back at my car, happy to see Isabella listening for a change.

He hesitates, then continues. “He said he was hired by someone in your own backyard. Mancini money. Old money.”

Cold slides into my veins, sharper than the wind, sharper than the smell of smoke. “Family,” I say.

“Extended,” Rossi confirms. “He gave us a name. I’ll text it. But, boss… this feels personal.”

Of course it does. Papà told me once that the biggest threats never come from the street; they come from the table you think is yours. “Keep him breathing,” I say. “For now.”

“Understood.”

I have a brief chat with the cop at the scene, who is about as useful as a chocolate microwave, and head back to the car.

She’s watching me with narrowed eyes, that journalist brain clicking away. “Bad news?” she asks quietly.

“Still breathing, aren’t we? The cops don’t know anything yet. They’ll keep you informed.” I answer, sidestepping.

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t push. Not yet.

As I grip the wheel, the name Rossi sent flashes across my screen.

A name I recognize.

Blood.

My hands tighten around the steering wheel until the leather bites into my palms.

Fire, Russians, family betrayal. A woman with bruises on her ribs because she wrote a veiled truth.

I glance at Isabella as she stares up at the damaged building, eyes shining with a mix of grief and stubborn determination. I’m supposed to keep my world clean. That was my father’s last demand, his dying wish.