Page 40 of The Cost of Silence

And once everything is secure, I sit in the chair in my office, door open to the hallway, and let the night stretch around me like an old, familiar coat.

Us three against the world. That’s what I texted my brothers earlier. What I didn’t add is the part that scares me most.

Because now, whether I meant to or not, I’ve pulled Isabella Romano under that shield.

And anyone who tries to touch what I’m protecting is going to learn just how little of my father’s darkness ever really left.

12.Isabella

I wake slowly.

Not the jerking, gasping kind of waking I’ve had the last two days, but something softer. A slow float to the surface, like my body finally realized it can rest without being ambushed.

For a second, I don’t remember where I am. Then the faint scent of cedar, expensive detergent, and something distinctly Nico hits my senses, and it all snaps back into place.

Penthouse. Fire. His brothers. Plans whispered behind a half-closed door.

And Nico’s voice last night, low and firm:

Go to sleep, Isabella.

I turn my face into the pillow, exhaling shakily. My ribs throb, but the pain is duller now, muted by rest and the medication from last night. I sit up slowly, wincing, and something catches my eye.

A folded note on the nightstand.

His handwriting, bold, slanted, impatient.

Eat. Take the meds. Don’t argue. — N

The command should annoy me.

It doesn’t.

For reasons I refuse to unpack before coffee, my chest warms.

I swing my legs off the bed carefully. Someone—him—left a soft cream sweater draped over the footboard. Not mine, all my stuff is gone. And folded underneath it are matching sweatpants in my size.

I touch the fabric. Cashmere-soft. Warm.

His actions are thoughtful in a way I’m not ready to acknowledge. Nico isn’t who I thought he was. In some ways, he is, I guess. The powerful, confident leader. The man who takes charge of a situation with deadly authority. Yet with every second I’m near him, he shows me facets of himself that were previously unimaginable. The tender, gruff care he gives me, the way he speaks to his brothers, so filled with love. He’s an enigma, a puzzle I can’t help but want to solve.

I dress, brush my hair, take the pills, and make my slow, sore way toward the living room.

The penthouse is bathed in daylight now, soft November sun turning the glass walls gold. It’s quiet except for the low hum of the city and the sound of someone typing.

Nico sits at the kitchen island, sleeves rolled, collar undone, hair slightly mussed like he’s been dragging his hands through it. A laptop is open in front of him, a mug at his elbow.

He looks… tired. But steady. Like a man who stayed awake because he chose to, not because he had to.

His eyes lift the second he senses me.

Not looks.Senses.

Something unspools in my ribs.

“There you are,” he says, voice soft but rough like morning gravel. “Come sit.”

Bossy as ever.