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Her lips twitch with her first genuine smile since we walked into the kitchen. “If you’re trying to make me feel better, it’s not working. I don’t know what I was thinking—getting into the back of a van and hiding in a barrel. I should’ve known that when he said farm, it’d be a place that vast.” She’s talking to herself now, staring down at her cup.
I want to praise her for her attempt, but the image of Isabella shivering next to that shed, her face almost blue, comes to mind. The moment when I came close to losing her…when I truly realized that I couldn’t let her go.
She lifts the mug to her lips, taking an audible sip. “You were right,” she says. “I should’ve gone for this. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She hesitates, her fingers tapping on the rim, but my ears are perked up, waiting for her question. “Did you go back to check on Mickey?”
My brow furrows. Mickey? Then it hits me—the jittery man from the vintage store. Her eyes flick to mine, searching, her body rigid with restraint.
“Leo didn’t tell me anything,” she rushes on. “Just like I didn’t tell you Mickey was working for my dad—but you found out.” She laughs without humor, shaking her head. “I went to see him because…I don’t know. Maybe I thought he’d tell me something useful. But when I was leaving, I saw one of my father’s men walk in.”
Her voice drops to a whisper as she bites her lower lip, teeth sinking into the soft flesh like she’s bracing herself for impact.
“Is he…dead?” she asks.
I don’t know. I ended the lead when I found out Marco had planned an ambush. But if she saw her father’s man there, the odds are that Marco disposed of his loose end. Just like he’s going to do with Igor. I shouldn’t feel sympathy for Mickey—he chose to work with a man like that.
Yet—
It’s Isabella. She’s found a way through my defenses and made me more human. More…emotional. “Yes,” I say roughly, hating how it makes me feel. “He’s probably dead. And every other lead I uncovered that belongs to your father is dead too.”
Her bottom lip trembles before she presses it tight as if trying to swallow the heartbreak whole. For a second, I think she’ll cry—her eyes shine, her throat bobs—but then she straightens, nodding with a quiet resolve that doesn’t match the pain in her expression.
“I see,” she whispers, voice brittle. Her fingers clench tighter around the mug, clinging to it. “I see. Why did I expect something else? He’s a hypocrite, after all.”
As I am. I pretend that I feel nothing, watching her struggle, but I do. Every time her lashes flutter in a desperate attempt to hold back tears, I feel it. And hate how much I feel it.
How much I see her.
“I should go.” My chair drags against the floor as I stand. “Goodnight, Isabella.”
She nods, her eyes downcast.
I walk past her, my jaw tucked in tight and my steps brisk, widening the distance between us until she’s nothing more than a thought burrowed deep in my head.
21
ISABELLA
“Polina!” My voice echoes down the staircase as I nearly miss a step in my rush. “Polina, wait!”
She pauses down the hallway, a basket in her arms, and turns with that ever-calm look on her face. “Ma’am?”
I push a hand through my hair, still tasting stale coffee on my tongue. “I—I’m sorry I overslept.” The words fall out fast, but they feel too small for the mess I am.
Truth is, it wasn’t just oversleeping. It was three damn cups of coffee last night. Three. And still, sleep danced just out of reach, like it has for the past few nights. I remember collapsing into bed sometime before sunrise, telling myself I’d close my eyes for just a moment, that I’d get up early, fix things, do something.
Instead, I woke to sunlight stabbing through the curtains and my skull pounding like a drum. I meant to sit up, maybe get a grip. Just a few more minutes, I told myself. Just a breath.
Next thing I knew—it was two. Two in the freaking afternoon.
And the only thing I remembered as I rushed out of my room was telling Polina I’d be hungry in the morning, so she had to make breakfast.
“Did you make breakfast?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No. I figured you’d be in bed for a while. And since Mr. Volkov didn’t return last night?—”