Page 44 of Entwined Lies (Entwined #1)

Luca

Yesterday had started like any other, but after visiting Jake, there was a shift in the air between us. Isabelle was different today. Her smile didn’t feel forced—it just… happened. Easy. Natural. Like some weight she’d been carrying finally slipped off her shoulders.

After I told her I knew about Jake and confessed to loving her, everything changed.

We spent hours in bed, talking—mostly about him.

She shared stories—things I’d missed out on all these years—how he’d cling to her when he was scared, the goofy things he’d say that always made her laugh.

The kind of stories that should’ve been mine to know all along.

The photos she showed—my son, with that same defiant tilt of the chin and stubborn eyes I saw in the mirror every morning—hit harder than I’d expected.

I made love to her like I was hers, not just for the night, but for good.

I didn’t know it was possible to fall harder one kiss at a time.

But every time I touched her, every sound she made, every time she looked up at me, I sank a little deeper.

And when she smiled, all soft lips and messy hair, I forgot how to breathe.

She gave me something no one ever had. Something I didn’t even know I still wanted: hope. Hope for something beyond blood, power, and pretending I didn’t need more .

But the thing about hope is, it’s a tricky bastard—it waits until you let your guard down before it guts you.

This morning, I caught myself doing something I’d never done before—browsing skateboarding gear online, hunting for something Jake would love.

It was such a dumb, little gesture, but as I clicked through the options, there was this weird tug in my chest, like it was a step toward being part of his life after all the time I’d lost. God, I had no idea what I was doing, but somehow, I couldn’t stop myself from trying.

That moment of calm shattered the second Enzo walked in, folder in hand and that look on his face—the one that meant shit was about to hit the fan.

He dropped it on my desk. “We’ve got a problem.”

I pushed the laptop aside and flipped open the stiff cardboard cover. The photos in it were routine surveillance shots, nothing special—until I saw her . And she wasn’t alone.

My pulse kicked up a notch as I took in the scene—Isabelle at her favorite restaurant, meeting with two guys I recognized all too well. Russians. The kind of men you didn’t just sit with unless you were already in the game.

“What the fuck am I looking at?” My voice came out low, rough.

Enzo didn’t flinch. Just leaned against the desk, arms crossed like he’d already played this scene in his head.

“This morning, Johnny came by. Said it was from the old man. They’re from three weeks ago. I don’t know how deep she is in, but it doesn’t look good.”

What the fuck. What the actual—

The photos blurred for a second, and I wasn’t sure if it was my eyes or my brain short-circuiting. Isabelle. Of all people. Selling me out?

My jaw clenched so hard it ached, and still I kept staring. Trying to find something—anything—that would make it not real. But it was. The signs were all there. I just hadn’t wanted to see them. Because I’d wanted her more than I wanted the truth.

“She wouldn’t…” I said, but it came out more like a plea than a statement. And that told me everything I didn’t want to know.

Enzo’s expression didn’t change. “She’s the reason.”

I stood up, pacing, every step fueled by anger. But beneath that anger was something worse—something cold, sharp. Betrayal. I let her in. Let her close enough to cut deep.

Now it looked like she’d been sharpening the knife the whole damn time.

“Why would she do this? Is she playing us for the Russians?”

Enzo shook his head slowly. “No idea. But if she’s made a move against us, we’re already fucked.”

I looked out the window, hands shaking just enough to piss me off.

“She fooled me,” I muttered. “Jesus. The old man was right all along, wasn’t he?”

“What now?”

“She talks. One way or another. And if I don’t like what I hear? I’ll do what needs to be done.”

Enzo nodded. “I’ve got your back. No matter what.”

I appreciated his loyalty, I really did, but if this went south, I’d be the one left holding the bag.

Waiting to question her was damn near impossible, but there was one thing I had to do first. Facing my father.

The last time I visited him in prison, he’d warned me about Isabelle. ‘She’ll ruin you,’ he’d said. I’d ignored him. Like the hardheaded asshole I always was. But as much as I hated to admit it, he’d seen the storm before I even felt the wind shift.

One way or another, I was getting the truth. And if Isabelle had been in bed with the Russians, she was about to find out what happened when you crossed me. Because love might make you blind, but betrayal? That’ll open your eyes real quick.

? ? ?

The prison was just as soul-sucking as ever. Its grim hallways were swallowing up every bit of life. Even the guards looked half-dead, their eyes dull as they waved me through.

My father was waiting, eyes already on the door before I opened it. Back straight, hands folded. The same cold stare. The same emotionless expression I’d grown up with.

“Luca,” he drawled, grin cutting across his face. “You look like shit. Trouble in paradise?”

I ignored the jab and sat. “Thanks for the concern. What do you know about her?”

He tilted his head, mock innocence written all over his face. “Her? You mean your wife? Finally stopped thinking with your dick?”

I took a breath, keeping my irritation buried deep. “Just tell me.”

“I warned you, didn’t I? Told you she was a liability. But you had to play the hero. Now look at you—sitting here, asking for answers you should already have.”

He leaned back, wearing that expression I’ve only seen right before he pulls the trigger.

“Tell me how the acting boss is the last to know he’s being played.”

My fists clenched under the table. “What do you know?”

He sighed like he pitied me. Like this whole conversation was a delay, not a necessity. “She has been in contact with Ivanov’s people. Feeding them information, playing both sides. Ivanov wants revenge, and she was the perfect little pawn to use.”

A cold chill settled in my gut.

“So, this is all about you. He’s using her to get to you. ”

“Yes. And it’s working.”

As his words sank in, the anger I’d been holding back started to bubble over.

Isabelle had played me—stabbed me in the back.

Her hesitation when I told her I loved her.

The way she avoided my eyes. How she clung to me after we visited Jake.

How she poured her heart out. She’d let her guard down just enough to make me believe it was real.

It wasn’t love she was choking on. It was guilt.

And she’d planned it all. Every moment, every look—just a distraction while she carried out whatever Ivanov needed.

“You did something to set this off,” I said through clenched teeth, not bothering to play polite. “What was it?”

“Does it really matter? Damage is done. Ivanov wants blood, and he’ll take it any way he can.”

God, his nonchalance made me want to throw the table through the wall.

The way she kept glancing over her shoulder—I thought it was just nerves. Now I knew better. She wasn’t scared that something might happen. She knew what she’d done, and she was just bracing for the crash.

“I warned you, Luca,” my father said, leaning in, voice like a knife. “Should’ve cut her loose when you had the chance. Now you’ve tied yourself to a sinking ship, and you’re gonna be the one bailing out the water.”

No matter how much I hated it, he was spot on. I’d let this happen. I’d let her in. And now I was standing in the rubble.

I pushed back from the table, my decision already made.

“I’ll handle it. But first, I’m going to find out why she did it.” My voice was as cold as the steel bars around us.

“Betrayal’s part of the job. Stop acting like it’s personal.

” The old man’s eyes flickered to the clock on the wall, then back to me with something almost like pity, but it was gone before I could name it.

“ You’ve got 48 hours, son. Your time starts now.

After that, this stops being your problem and starts being mine. And trust me, you don’t want that.”

Giving him a single nod, I kept my expression blank. I’d learned a long time ago that showing any crack, even to him, wasn’t an option. Weakness? In this life, it was just another weapon, and I wasn’t about to hand him the bullet.

I walked out, letting the door slam shut behind me, the echo reverberating in the empty hallway, his words following me like a shadow.

Fucking hell. He was right. He always was when it counted.

I’d seen enough knives in backs to know betrayal was never an if. It was a when. But this? This cut differently. Because it wasn’t some stranger with a knife at my back—it was her. And that’s what made it burn like acid.

? ? ?

It had been cloudy all day. But the moment I hit the driveway? Sunlight. Full-on golden glow. Like I’d just arrived in some twisted, Hallmark version of my own downfall.

I headed straight to my office, giving the door a good shove behind me. But it was just as pointless as trying to stop a hurricane with a paper napkin.

I grabbed the Macallan, poured a glass that was more ‘fuck it’ than ‘cheers’, and threw it back in one go. The burn barely registered. One glass turned into two, but no amount of whiskey could dull the sharp edge of betrayal digging into my skin.

Sinking into the couch, I opened Isabelle’s folder like a man opening a casket.

I went through the pages—photos, reports, all the bullshit evidence—feeling like an idiot for ever believing her.

Every image was another punch to the gut.

The way she smiled in some of them, so carefree, so painfully genuine, each one twisting the knife even deeper.

Not too long ago, I’d been sitting right here, whiskey in hand, ready to go to war for her—ready to tell my father to fuck off and protect her from the world.

And now? Now I was facing the possibility that she might be the one I needed protection from.

A humorless chuckle slipped out before I could stop it. Yeah, this was rich. Acting head of a criminal empire, and here I was—flipping through photos like some jilted lover, trying to piece together where it all went wrong.

I leaned back, staring at the ceiling, letting the whiskey work its way through my veins, trying to numb the gnawing ache that wouldn’t go away.

But no amount of alcohol was going to drown out the consequences.

I’d killed men for looking at me the wrong way, ended lives without blinking when loyalty came into question.

But her? She was the only one who ever gave me a reason to think there was more to life than this.

Isabelle was the woman who made me believe—for one stupid, reckless moment—that I could be more than the monster everyone saw.

The whiskey burned less with each sip, or I was just getting numb.

She turned her back on me. Sold me out. And I was ready to finish it right then—fast, clean, final. But some broken part of me, the part that still wanted to hold her one last time, needed to hear the words that would make pulling the trigger feel like justice, not grief.