Page 33

The cold hit my face. Late January had a bite in New Jersey, and the damp wind cutting down the block didn’t help. I crossed the parking lot and followed the sidewalk past two quiet houses, keeping my attention on the street, the driveways, and every parked car. When I reached Isabella’s porch, I knocked once. She opened the door before I could knock a second time.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Gone was the attorney who’d walked into Xyst and the careful woman I’d met with since. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders, and she wore black leggings with an oversized gray sweater that had slipped off one shoulder. She was barefoot with almost no makeup on, and her fingers clung to the edge of the door hard enough to turn her knuckles pale.

The softer version made her seem younger. Prettier too, which irritated me because noticing that right now was useless.

Her eyes moved over my shoulder toward the street. “Did anyone follow you?”

“No.”

She stepped back to let me in, but her gaze stayed on the road another second before she shut the door and locked it.

The house smelled of fresh paint and old wood. A small bag sat next to the wall by the entrance, and the living room opened to the left with old hardwood floors, drop cloths, paint samples taped to one wall, and an ugly sofa in the middle of the room, with a small table next to it. The previous owner had probably left them.

Unopened boxes lined the far wall, tools lay near the baseboards, and through the doorway, the half-finished kitchen had cabinet doors removed and paint cans stacked on a sheet of plastic.

She’d been putting real work into the place. The paint samples were labeled, the tools had been left where a project had paused instead of ended, and the half-finished kitchen carried the mess of someone who had been making choices for her future there.

That landed heavier than I expected. I hated that helping her meant tearing her away from her life.

“I can’t believe you came,” she said.

“I said I would.”

Her mouth pulled into a tight smile. “Men say a lot of things.”

“Aye. They do.”

She led me into the kitchen, shoulders tight, one hand skimming the wall, then moved behind the island before facing me again as if she needed something solid between us. I let her have the distance. One wrong move by me would send her bolting for the door, and I had no interest in turning a rescue into another kind of threat.

She glanced toward the front windows. “I don’t have much here to offer you. Glass of water?”

“No, I’m fine.”

She took a glass from a shelf, filled it for herself, and set it on the counter without taking a sip, just to give her hands something to do.

Her attention finally settled on me instead of the door or the windows. Her fingers kept tapping against the counter with the restless energy of a woman who had spent too long worrying whether running would save her or get her killed.

“I almost didn’t open the door,” she said.

“But you did.”

“I stood there with my hand on the lock, trying to decide which mistake would kill me faster,” she said, shrugging with a nervous smile.

I leaned against the doorframe, giving her space. “Did something happen?”

“Ciro called.” She hugged her arms across her stomach. “He wants me at the estate tonight. Said he has a trip for me.”

My jaw tightened. “Where to?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Do you think he knows?”

“I think he knows something’s up.” Her voice wavered. She closed her eyes for half a second, then gave a small shake of her head, trying to keep her emotions in check. “Or maybe he doesn’t, and I’m about to blow up our plans because I got scared of a phone call.”

“You’re not scared of a phone call.”