Page 63 of Crown Of Blood

When the sound of her footsteps disappears, the silence she leaves behind is sharp enough to cut.

Isabella sets her cup down slowly. “You’re serious.”

“Yes.”

She folds her arms. “You’re worried someone will try again.”

“I’m not risking it.”

“You mean,” she says, voice low, “you don’t want to be seen with me.”

“That’s not—”

“You don’t want people to know,” she interrupts, stepping closer. “That I’m here. That I’m not your wife. That I’m the journalist who almost burned your empire down but somehow ended up in your bed. That’s what this is, isn’t it?”

“Bella—”

Her laugh is brittle. “I’m your dirtysecret.”

I reach for her, but she pulls back. The words hit harder than she means them to, because I can see the truth behind them—her fear that she’s temporary, that she’ll be erased the moment it’s inconvenient.

She doesn’t understand. She couldn’t.

I close the space between us and catch her face between my hands. “Look at me.”

She does, but there’s worry swimming just beneath the anger.

“I loved my wife,” I say quietly.

The pain that flashes across her eyes is instant, and it nearly undoes me.

I keep going. “I loved her because she gave me Sofia. Because she listened. Because she built a home when I was too busy building walls. But what we had—what I thought was love—doesn’t touch what I feel for you.”

Her breath catches, and I can see her trying to hold still, to decide whether to believe me.

“I feel fire for you, Bella,” I whisper. “A want that’s deeper than anything I’ve known. It’s not simple. It’s not safe. I can’t stand the thought of being away from you. But I can’t take you with me today. Not when there’s a chance someone might be watching.”

For a long time, she says nothing. Then she nods, slow and careful.

“All right,” she murmurs. “Just… come back safe.”

Her voice cracks on the last word.

When I leave with Sofia, Isabella stands by the penthouse window, one hand pressed against the glass. The city spills light around her, hair catching gold in the morning sun.

Sofia waves from the car, shouting her name. Isabella waves back, smiling for the little girl’s sake, but her eyes stay on me.

And as the car pulls away, every part of me hates the distance growing between us—

because I already know that for however long I’m gone, she’ll be the only thing I can think about.

The school sits tucked between glass towers and old brick, a strange little island of innocence in the middle of everything I own and everything that’s ruined me.

Sofia skips beside me, her tiny hand swinging in mine, gold paper crown slightly bent, glitter already sticking to my sleeve.

For once, no one’s staring at the Don of New York.

They’re staring at a father walking his daughter into a school auditorium that smells like crayons and coffee.