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He tosses his head back, laughing. “You’re worried that I might be making a move on her?”
A muscle in my jaw twitches as I ignore his jab where it hits. “Why would I?” I ask, throwing on an air of indifference. “She’s my wife because I need her to be.”
He gives me a pointed, knowing look that sees through my lie. Then he shrugs. “If you say so. But I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t do that to you. I was only doing as you said, keeping her company. She wanted a bottle of wine. I couldn’t say no when she poured me one, and the next thing I know, I’m getting invited for dinner.”
“Why would she ask you?”
“Maybe because she didn’t want to eat alone? If you’re wondering why she didn’t extend the invite to you, maybe you shouldaskher. My job’s done here,” he says with a mock salute. “Goodnight.”
There’s no reason to keep him back, so I let him go, but I don’t move. I stand in the hallway for another minute, maybe two, until the silence feels heavier than the tension. Then I head for the kitchen.
Isabella frowns when I walk in alone. “Where’s Leo?”
“He left,” I reply.
Her eyes flick to the door, then settle on me again with a hint of disappointment. Maybe even accusation.
“He had other things to attend to,” I add, a little too quickly.
“Oh.” She glances at the counter, lips pressed together as her expression falls. “I don’t know who’s going to eat the food now. Polina made enough for two.”
Me.
She could ask me. One word, and I’d sit down. I’d eat with her. But she doesn’t.
And I don’t offer.
“Goodnight,” I say stiffly. As I walk away, I remember my conversation with Igor about her mother. Leo’s words come to mind again.“Maybe she didn’t want to eat alone.”
I look over my shoulder in time to see her slump. She reaches for her glass, lifting it. It touches her lips, but she doesn’t drink.
“Mashed potatoes for me, Polina,” I say as I return. Isabella’s eyes brighten as she looks up, and she almost looks pleasantly surprised. “I’ll have a glass of wine too,” I add, reaching for the Merlot.
I pour myself a glass and refill hers without saying a word. “Thanks,” she mutters.
You’re welcome. I’m so sorry about what happened to your mother. We could eat dinner together every night if you want.
“Sure,” I say instead, sitting with her.
As she drinks, a smile forms on her lips. The feeling it brings is unexpectedly warm and pleasant, settling snugly in my chest.
How much of the truth does she know?I wonder. I could tell her now, breaking the last shred of loyalty—if any—that she has for Marco Ricci. If done correctly, Isabella could become my best tool to find him.
Cruel. Ruthless. Unrelenting.
Just like me.
It fits right in with my plan, yet somehow, it’s the last thing I want.
It’s ironic—how I’ve gone from wanting to break her apart to wanting to protect her with every breath. She wasminebecause she belonged to Marco, and now she’s mine because I can’t seem to let her go.
19
ISABELLA
One. Two. Three. Four.
He’s up to something.