Page 32 of The Cost of Silence

He smirks faintly. “No. Dogs usually listen better.”

Despite everything, my lips twitch. It feels like a betrayal to smile right now, but there it is anyway, small and stubborn.

He orders food like he orders everything else—succinct, decisive, no room for argument. When he hangs up, he drops into the armchair across from me. For a moment, neither of us speaks.

My phone lies in my lap, dark screen reflecting a smudge on my face. I touch it gently, like it’s something fragile. “Do you think there’ll be anything left?” I ask. “Of my place, I mean.”

His gaze holds mine. “We’ll find out.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.” He leans forward, forearms braced on his knees, fingers laced. “Insurance will cover the building and contents. I can sort out clothes and other stuff in the meantime. If there’s anything we can salvage, we will. You won’t be homeless.”

“I don’t care about the lease, Nico.” My throat tightens. “It’s… my stuff. My photos. My dad’s things. My mom’s ugly ceramic angel that looks like it’s judging you from every corner. You can’t replace that with new stuff.”

Something flickers behind his eyes. Understanding. Regret. A ghost of something I can’t name. “No,” he says quietly. “You can’t.”

We sit in that awful honesty for a moment.

A few hourslater elevator chimes.

I jolt, heart thudding too fast, and hate how obvious it feels. Nico notices, of course he does, but he doesn’t comment. He just stands, the room shifting subtly around his presence.

“They’re here,” he says.

They.The brothers.

I smooth a hand down my sweater, suddenly aware of the smoke smell still clinging to my clothes, the bruise darkening my cheek, the ache in my bones. I’ve met powerful menbefore—CEOs, politicians, billionaires with more money than conscience, but this feels different. These men share his name. They share a history I only wrote about from the outside.

The doors slide open.

First out is Adriano—Adi—all tailored slacks and crisp shirt, with quiet eyes, the middle brother I’ve seen in photographs attached to legal achievements and corporate wins. His hair is smoothly combed, tie knotted with precision, like he came straight from something important.

Behind him strides Matteo, the youngest, the charming one. Black shirt, open collar, dark blazer, and that easy grin I’ve seen on gossip sites where he’s usually standing too close to someone too beautiful. He looks like trouble, beautiful, well-tailored trouble.

Matteo’s gaze hits me first. It sharpens, the grin fading around the edges. “Jesus, Nico,” he says quietly. “He did a number on her.”

My spine goes ramrod straight. I hate that I feel exposed. I hate that they see damage before they see anything else.

Adi’s gaze is different. Assessing, cool, but not unkind. “Ms. Romano,” he says, giving a small nod. “We’ve been reading your work.”

I swallow. “Isabella’s fine.”

He studies me a beat longer. “Isabella, then.”

Nico steps slightly between us. Not fully blocking, but enough that I feel the line he draws in the room. “We’re not here to talk about her articles.”

“On the contrary,” Matteo says lightly, walking around the couch to lean against the back of it, his presence warm at my shoulder. “Her article is why we’re having this lovely little family gathering. Seems fair to give it a nod.”

“Matty,” Nico warns.

He lifts his hands. “What? I’m being polite.”

Adi ignores their bickering, focusing on me the way I imagine he focuses on opposing counsel. “We need to go over everything that’s happened to you in the last few days,” he says. “Every contact. Every threat. Anything that felt off, even if you dismissed it at the time.”

My fingers tighten around my phone. There’s more there than I’ve told Nico. The silent calls. The shove on the platform. The text about my lights.

Nico’s eyes find mine. Dark. Steady. “Isabella?”