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Stefano's hand finds the small of my back, a subtle reassurance. I lean into his touch, drawing strength from his quiet support. His trust in my innocence is a lifeline I cling to, the only thing keeping my head above water as the sea of confusion and betrayal threatens to drown me.
And then, to my shock, from my coat pocket, they pull out the tiniest piece of what looks like cocaine.
“No,” I gasp, my hands reaching for my mouth. “I swear, that’s not mine.”
“Ms. Torres,” they say, “You’re under arrest.”
They handcuff me, while tears spring to my eyes.
Stefano steps forward, his hand still resting on my back. "Is there any way we can post bail for Miss Torres?" His tone is polite yet firm, standing up for me in a way that makes warmth bloom beneath the panic. "There is no flight risk. She will appear to all court dates until her innocence is proven."
The agent shrugs. "That will be up to the judge to decide. For now, she's coming with us."
He reaches for my arm, but Stefano blocks his path. He looks straight at me, and whispers, “Don’t answer a single question until you have a lawyer.”
“I don’t know anyone in New York,” I mumble, as the officers lead me away. Stefano walks by my side, trying to keep up with their pace as they push me forward. Everyone’s looking. Everyone’s staring. I want to hide.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll try to arrange one.”
“Listen,” I say, arching my neck back as the officers bring me out onto the tarmac where a police car with the lights on awaits. “Call my cousin Juan in Jalisco,” I shout out the number from the back of my head as the police pull me into the waiting car.
As the car speeds away, I arch my neck, to see Stefano standing there, looking as helpless and confused as I feel.
Chapter 8
Stefano
Thepolicecarspeedsaway, red and blue lights flashing across Isabella’s panicked face as she looks back through the window.
My chest tightens. I don’t know this woman, not really. We shared a reckless, lust-fueled moment on a plane—nothing more. Yet the urge to protect her surges through me, hot and primal, the way I felt when I pulled her into my arms a few hours ago.
I close my eyes, remembering her cry of alarm when the FBI agents swarmed towards her, the terror that flooded her gaze. I've seen enough criminals as I came up through the Mafia ranks, and I know a guilty look when I see one. It's my job to learn to read people, for my life depends on it.
So, I can say with certainty that she isn’t a criminal. However, she’s tied to this mess, she didn’t smuggle drugs. I can bet my life on it.
I rake my hands through my hair and curse. My life is complicated enough without getting entangled in someone else’s disaster. But I can’t ignore the insistence pounding through my veins, demanding I keep her safe.
As I glimpse the FBI van disappearing behind a hanger I make my decision.
I’m going after her until help comes along.
I pull out my phone, scrolling through my contacts until I find Luca Conti's name. My boss will have connections that could help Isabella, but I hesitate. If I involve him, he'll want answers and leverage over her life. You don't just take favors from the mafia without giving something in return.
If Conti steps in to help, Isabella, who isn't a criminal right now, she will be forced to become one in her attempts to repay his debt. He'll make her repay it, whether she wants to or not. He'll dig into her life, her family, her secrets—and he won't stop until he uncovers the truth to get what he wants.
Isabella will be drawn into a world she doesn't belong in. A world of power and violence and things better left unknown.
I slam my phone back into my pocket. No. I won't do that to her.
Instead, I search my memory for the number Isabella gave me, the one she said to call if anything happened to her. I find a bench and sit, entering the series of digits to make the international call to Mexico, with shaking fingers.
The line rings twice before a male voice answers. "Hola?"
"Is this Juan?" I ask. My heart pounds as I wait for his response, hoping I've contacted the right person. Hoping he can actually help.
"Who is asking?" His tone is edged with suspicion.
I wet my lips, gathering my nerve. "My name is Stefano Nitti. I am phoning because of your cousin, Isabella Torres. She and I were on the same flight to New York. She told me to call you. The FBI just took her away, accusing her of drug possession."
