ISABELLA

Chapter 3

The days that followed passed in a blur of new sounds, unfamiliar smells, and voices that rolled like music in the air.

Italy was different. It wasn’t just the scenery, though the rolling vineyards and narrow cobblestone streets had a way of stealing your breath. It was the rhythm of life here. Slower, softer. People laughed louder, ate longer, and seemed to wear their emotions openly, like the sky wore the sun.

For someone like me, who carried grief folded tightly inside, it was both comforting and overwhelming.

Every morning, I woke to the sound of birds and Daniella’s footsteps racing down the hallway. She had made it her mission to burst into my room and drag me downstairs for breakfast. My aunt always had a spread waiting — bread still warm from the oven, cheese, fruits I could never find back home.

“You must eat, Isabella,” she would say, setting a plate in front of me no matter how much I protested. “A strong body makes a strong heart.”

And I would eat, because saying no felt impossible under her watchful gaze.

Nico was always there too, though he carried himself differently from the rest of the family. At twenty-three, he had a confidence about him, the kind that filled a room without words. He didn’t say much during meals, but I caught him watching me sometimes — quiet, protective. The way an older brother might.

“You’re too quiet,” Daniella told me one morning, her mouth full of bread. “You need to smile more.”

I gave her a small smile, the kind that never reached my eyes. She pouted but seemed satisfied, skipping away to show me her newest drawing.

The days stretched into small routines. Afternoons spent helping Daniella with her homework, evenings walking through the garden with my aunt. Sometimes Nico would drive me into town, pointing out his favorite café or bookstore, his voice soft with nostalgia.

But there were nights too. Nights when the silence pressed too heavily, when memories of my parents clawed at my chest. I would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, clutching my phone though I had no one to call.

One evening, as the sun dipped low, I sat outside on the balcony, the villa bathed in orange light. Nico stepped out, leaning on the railing beside me.

“You don’t have to pretend, you know,” he said quietly.

I stiffened. “Pretend what?”

He glanced at me, his dark eyes sharp, knowing. “That you’re okay.”

I looked away, focusing on the horizon. “It’s easier if I am.”

He leaned against the railing, arms crossed loosely. “You’ve always been like this,” he said after a moment, his voice calm. “Even when we were kids. You’d fall, scrape your knees, and you’d sit there acting like it didn’t hurt. I used to think you were the bravest kid I knew.”

A small, bitter laugh escaped me. “Brave? Or just stubborn?”

“Both,” he admitted, and I could feel his eyes on me. “But now… I don’t know. You’re carrying too much, Isabella. And I can see it.”

I tightened my grip on the railing. The wood dug into my palm, grounding me. “What do you expect me to do? Fall apart? Cry every day until someone feels sorry for me?” My voice cracked slightly, and I hated that it did. “I can’t, Nico. If I start, I don’t think I’ll ever stop.”

He said nothing. Then, softly: “No one’s asking you to fall apart. I’m saying you don’t have to carry it alone.”

I finally looked at him. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes — not pity, but something heavier. Something protective.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” I asked before I could stop myself.

His lips twitched, almost a smile. “Because you’re family. Because I know what it’s like to lose more than you can handle. And because…” He hesitated, then shrugged. “You deserve someone in your corner, even if you don’t want it.”

My chest tightened, but I quickly looked away, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. I wasn’t ready to unravel, not in front of him.

“Thank you,” I said quietly.

He gave a short nod, pushing off the railing. “Get some sleep, Isabella. Tomorrow, I’ll show you the city. You should see more than these walls.”

As he turned to leave, I found myself calling after him. “Nico?”

He paused, glancing back.

I swallowed. “You’re right. About me. But… thank you for not saying it in front of anyone else.”

He studied me for a second, then said simply, “Your secrets are safe with me.”

And then he was gone, leaving me with a strange mix of comfort and unease.

NIGHT CLUB

The bass from the club rattled in my chest, drowning out almost every thought. Lights flashed red, blue, and violet across faces that blurred together as bodies moved in rhythm. I wasn’t used to places like this—too loud, too alive—but Nico had insisted.

“You need a distraction,” he’d said, dragging me through the entrance with that easy grin of his.

I pretended. I let the music fill the hollow parts of me, let the burn of a drink blur the edges of grief. But after an hour, the air inside was too thick, too suffocating.

“I’m stepping out,” I told Nico, motioning toward the back hallway that led to the side exit.

He nodded distractedly, already deep in conversation with a friend I didn’t know.

I pushed open the heavy door, night air wrapped around me like a relief. I took a deep breath, leaning against the brick wall. But then i heard a low voices, sharp, tense.

I froze.

Around the corner, in the dim light of a streetlamp, three men stood. One knelt, begging in Italian, his hands clasped together. The other two were shadows, tall and broad. The one in front, standing calm, almost regal. His posture was composed, his tailored suit catching faint light. He didn’t even flinch when the pleading man tried to crawl forward.

“Pathetic,” the man in the suit muttered, his voice carrying a dangerous calm.

And then, before I could even process what was happening, a silenced gun was raised. Pfft. A soft, terrible sound.

The man dropped instantly, a lifeless heap on the concrete.

My hand flew to my mouth, stifling the scream clawing up my throat. My back pressed flat against the wall, but my breath betrayed me—a sharp gasp slipped out.

The suited man’s head snapped up.

His eyes—icy, piercing—found me. Even in the shadows, I felt pinned, like prey caught in a predator’s sights.

He started walking toward me.

Every instinct screamed to run, but my legs wouldn’t move. By the time I thought to back away, he was already there, one hand slamming against the wall beside my head.

“Who the hell are you?” His voice was low, lethal, the faintest Italian lilt curling around the words.

“I—I didn’t see anything,” I stammered, though we both knew it was a lie.

His eyes narrowed, scanning me with ruthless precision. His hand shot out, gripping my chin, tilting my face up to his. “Don’t lie to me.”

The barrel of his gun was still warm, I realized, inches from my arm as he leaned closer.

“I should kill you right now,” he hissed.

I thought he meant it. His finger twitched near the trigger, his eyes dark and unreadable.

“Leo.” Another voice broke through—the taller man beside him, clearly his second-in-command. He placed a steadying hand on Leo’s shoulder. “Not here. We don’t have the time.”

Leo’s jaw flexed, but his gaze never left mine. He studied me as if memorizing every detail, as if weighing whether my life was worth sparing.

Finally, he leaned even closer, his breath hot against my ear. “Listen to me, beautiful stranger. If you so much as whisper what you saw tonight… if you so much as think about it—I will find you. And I will kill you myself.”

His hand released me abruptly, but not before his thumb brushed against my jaw, a strange contradiction to the violence in his words.

I couldn’t breathe. My pulse thundered in my ears, my body trembling against the wall.

He gave one last look, something cold and final, before turning back to his men.

I stayed frozen as they disappeared into the night, leaving only silence and the echo of his promise behind.

And though I wanted to believe I could forget what I’d just seen, I knew deep down—his shadow would never leave me.