Page 100 of The Art of Ruin

Better.

Enough that I can get a shower without it feeling like I’m climbing a mountain.

The lodge is quiet when I step out into the hallway; the bickering and laughter that usually comes with a Mancini gathering is absent.

When I reach the main living space, I find Isabella seated at the long kitchen island, sleeves pushed up, a mug in one hand, her phone abandoned somewhere nearby as she glances up the second she hears me.

“There she is,” she says, her smile immediate.

I take her in properly for the first time since walking in—dark hair slightly less controlled than usual, like she’s run her hands through it one too many times already today. There’s something brighter about her, more energy sitting just under the surfacelike she’s halfway between a conversation and chasing down a story. Even now, wrapped up in Mancini chaos and mountain air, she still has that same look about her—like she’s noticing everything, filing it away, already asking questions she hasn’t said out loud yet.

It’s ridiculous how much I’ve missed that.

Missed her.

“I was starting to wonder if we needed to send a search party.”

I laugh softly, leaning against the edge of the counter. “I didn’t realize I’d slept that long.”

“You needed it,” she replies easily, setting her mug down and moving toward one of the warming drawers built seamlessly into the cabinetry. “And before you say anything—no apologizing. You’re on vacation.”

“I was going to apologize,” I admit.

“I know,” she says, glancing over her shoulder with a look that says she knows me far too well. “And I’m stopping you.”

I smile despite myself.

She pulls out a plate, steam curling up immediately—pancakes, bacon, something that smells warm and solid and exactly like the kind of food you want in a place like this. My appetite has been rubbish but it’s back with a vengeance now.

“Adriano set this aside for you before they left,” she adds, sliding it toward me.

I glance at Isabella in surprise, then back at the plate, my fingers tightening slightly around the edge of it. “Oh,” I say, softer than I intended. “He didn’t have to do that.”

“Adriano never does anything he doesn’t want to do. He did it because he wanted to take care of you,” she corrects lightly.

Of course he did. He’s been taking care of me for days, so I’m not sure why I’m so shocked.

I wrap my fingers around the plate, letting the warmth seep into my hands. “Where is everyone?”

“Your small shadow was very determined to go skiing,” Isabella says, leaning back against the counter. “So Nico, Adriano, and Matteo took her up the mountain before she staged a full rebellion.”

“That tracks.”

“Elena and Rossi went into town,” she continues. “Something about last-minute shopping and fresh air.”

“And you stayed behind?”

She lifts one shoulder slightly. “I was waiting for you.”

I blink at her, caught off guard for a second. “You didn’t have to do that. What about Nico?”

“What about him? He knows how important you are to me. He was happy to escape for some time with his brothers and give us time to catch up properly.”

I don’t comment on it, just nod, pick up a fork and take a bite before I can overthink anything else. It’s good—ridiculously good, actually—and I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until that first mouthful.

Isabella watches me for a second, something satisfied flickering across her face before she pushes off the counter.

“Finish that,” she says. “Then we’re going out.”