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EPILOGUE
ISABELLA
In all the wild fantasies I’ve had, sex on a plane in full hearing, if not view of the pilot, was never one of them. But I’m so overcome that I barely realize where we are.
We almost died. As long as I live, I’ll never forget the terror of bullets flying around me, the screams of men struck, the sounds of them dying. The knowledge that all I could do is run and that at any moment, it could be me, bleeding out on the tarmac as I looked up at the sky for the last time.
But it wasn’t me. It wasn’t either of us. We’re alive, all three of us—me, Niall, and our baby. That knowledge overcomes us both, and before I know what’s happening, I’m in his lap, skirt tugged up, and his cock inside me as he fucks me and I ride him, fast and hard, to the orgasm we both desperately need to remember that we’re alive.
That we made it.
We’re free.
I wish I could mean it,he’d said.But for now, you’re mine.
I know afterward, when I fall asleep on his shoulder that I’m going to wake up in New York. A new country, a new place, a new home. Not mine, but his. I know, too, that it will be the end of us, but I can’t quite make myself believe that fact. That the Niall who told me flatly that he didn’t love me, that he would divorce me, is the same one who took me so fiercely a few minutes ago.
I think maybe I’m not the only one who lied. That maybe he’s lying to himself, and to me, about how he feels.
But I can’t be angry, and I know there’s nothing I can do. He won’t want to stay longer if I beg him, and so instead, I soak up the last moments, curled against him in one of the uncomfortable seats, my head on his shoulder as I fall asleep.
When I wake, we’re in New York.
Niall shakes me gently awake, helping me off the plane. There are people waiting for us, three men—a tall sophisticated-looking man who looks a little younger than Niall, a handsome older man, greying a little at the temples, broader and more muscular, and another man very like the first, young, dark-haired, and gorgeous.
“Isabella, this is Luca Romano, Viktor Andreyev, and Maximilian Agosti,” Niall says, gesturing to them. “This is my wife, Isabella Santiago.”
“Sounds like there’s a story there,” Viktor says, his mouth thinning. “But come on. Caterina will be glad to see you, Niall.”
We follow them to a waiting car as I look around. The air is warm, and Niall shrugs off his jacket as we get in, not meeting my eyes.
“So this is New York,” I say tentatively, and he nods.
“We’re staying at Viktor’s house for the night before we fly to Boston,” Niall says. “He’s the leader of the Bratva here, a Russian organization. Luca is the head of the Italian mafia here. Max is the former priest I told you about. He’s under Viktor’s protection and stays with them sometimes.
It’s a lot to take in, and even more when we arrive at Viktor’s house, a grand stonework mansion. We’re greeted by his wife, Caterina, a pretty slender brunette who’s holding a baby, a young woman with strawberry blonde hair holding another, and two blonde girls who are bouncing around excitedly at the prospect of a guest. I’m introduced to them all—to Sasha, the girl who turns out to be the nanny, the babies, and the two girls, Anika and Yelena, who, it turns out, are Viktor’s daughters. The house is loud and full of people, more boisterous than I would have expected from another mob boss like my father. It’s easy for me to fade back and stay quiet as we’re taken to freshen up and then to dinner.
Mercifully, no one really asks me questions, but I can feel Niall’s eyes on me as I eat and everyone else’s. I hear Viktor ask Niall something quietly about our marriage, and Niall tells him they’ll talk about it in the morning, which makes my stomach clench with dread.
But nothing makes me feel it quite as much as when we’re shown to our rooms after dinner and a kind good night from Viktor, Caterina, and everyone else, and the housekeeper gestures to one door.
“Here’s your bedroom, Isabella,” she says, gesturing. “And Mr. Flanagan, you’re just down the hall.”
I look at Niall, shocked. I’m not sure why, exactly, I’d thought that we’d be sharing a bedroom. His attempt to get us separate beds at the last hotel should have been enough to clue me in. But he doesn’t protest like I’d hoped.
“Thank you, Martha,” he says, smiling affably, and continues down the hall towards the door she pointed out. He pauses just in front of it, as the housekeeper walks away and I stand frozen in front of mine, and he finally meets my eyes fully.
“Goodnight, Isabella.”
The words strike me like a blow as he disappears into the room, the door closing soundly behind him. With that, I know for certain that nothing has changed.
We’re in New York.
We’re free.
My husband is going to make sure I’m safe and cared for. Our child will want for nothing.
But he doesn’t love me.
And apparently, he never will.
