Page 34 of Accidental Alliance

No one here knows the name Isabella Russo or that I am—was—the daughter of a strategist who used to say that sentiment gets people killed faster than greed.

No one knows I once loved a dangerous man and paid for it with abandonment that nearly broke me.

I built this life from the ashes of that betrayal so my son could grow up believing strength does not have to come wrapped in cruelty and that love does not have to mean weakness.

When the coffee maker gurgles its final drip, I pour a cup and lean against the counter, letting the warmth seep into my hands.

It is not a perfect life.

There are bills that make me wince and nights when Matteo gets sick and I have no one to hand him to while I scrub vomit from sheets at two in the morning.

There are days at the clinic when the fluorescent lights make my own head ache and elderly patients who tell me their whole life story while the phone rings off the hook.

There are moments, usually around midnight, when loneliness slips in through the cracks of my resolve and sits with me at the kitchen table while I stare out the window at the stars and wonder if that same man I used to know is looking at them too.

But this life is ours.

Outside, Matteo is calling for a rematch, his face already flushed from running.

I take a sip from my mug and let my gaze rest on him.

For one fragile moment, standing there with a warm coffee between my palms and sunlight pooling across the floorboards behind me, I let myself believe that the past is finally what I have insisted it is for these long years—gone and buried, unable to find us here after all these years.

Until the knock comes.

It startles me out of my thoughts so sharply that a little coffee sloshes over the rim of my mug and splashes hot against my knuckles.

The sound echoes through the quiet house, too loud against the hush of the kitchen and the distant laughter outside. My heart gives one hard, ugly thud against my ribs.

I glance automatically toward the hallway leading to the front door, more irritated than alarmed at first.

For one absurd second, I honestly think it is a delivery driver trying to drop off a package too early.

Maybe the vitamins I ordered last week or the school shoes Matteo needs because he managed to outgrow the current pair in what felt like a single night.

Something normal and dull, belonging to the life I built with no help from anyone else.

Then another set of knocks comes right after.

This one different and far more authoritative than the first set.

My body reacts before my mind catches up.

It is not a conscious decision, more like a switch flipping somewhere deep in my bones from old instincts I spent years forcing to sleep now jerking violently awake.

The soft domestic haze of the kitchen evaporates in an instant, replaced by something infinitely more familiar.

I set the mug down without a sound.

Outside the window, Matteo and the other boys are already starting up another round in the yard.

My son is laughing again, jogging backward with the soccer ball tucked under one arm while one of the other kids complains about the last goal. The sight of him so careless and bright under the morning sun sends a surge of adrenaline laced with ice through my bloodstream.

I wipe my damp hand on the side of my pants and move down the hallway.

The floorboard near the entryway creaks under my weight, and I hate myself a little for forgetting about the sound at all.

As I approach the door, my mind is already cataloging options with an old, mechanical efficiency I have not had to use in years.