Dinner With the Enemy
1721 Words
"Wear this."
The crimson dress landed on Isabella's bed like an accusation. She stared at it, silk, expensive, the kind of thing that cost more than most people's cars. The kind of thing that made a statement about who owned what.
Adrian stood in the doorway, already dressed for dinner. Dark suit. Darker expression.
"I'm not…" She crossed her arms. "I'm not wearing that."
"You are." Not a request. "Dinner is in twenty minutes."
"I said no."
He stepped inside. The guard at the door didn't follow, just closed them in together. Isabella's pulse quickened.
"Let me be clear," Adrian said quietly. "You're in my house. You'll eat dinner with me. And you'll wear what I give you." He paused. "Unless you'd prefer to eat in your room. Alone. For the next however long this takes."
The threat was obvious. Isolation. The same tactic interrogators used to break prisoners, cut them off, make them desperate for human contact, for anything.
She picked up the dress. The fabric was cool against her palms, liquid smooth.
"Turn around," she said.
His eyebrow lifted. "Modest?"
"Turn around."
For a moment, she thought he'd refuse. Then he did, slowly, deliberately, giving her his back. The gesture felt like power. Like he was allowing her this small dignity.
Isabella stripped quickly, hyper-aware of his presence. The dress slid over her skin like water. It fit perfectly. Of course it did. He'd probably known her measurements before she'd known she'd be wearing it.
"Done," she said.
He turned. His gaze tracked from her face down to her feet and back up, clinical, assessing. But something flickered in his expression. Something that wasn't quite clinical.
"Better," he said.
×××××××
The dining room was designed to make her feel small.
Thirty-foot ceilings. Security cameras in every corner. Guards at each exit, stone-faced men who looked like they'd seen too much violence to flinch at more. The table could have seated twenty. Instead, just two place settings at one end.
Adrian pulled out her chair. The gesture was courteous. Mocking.
She sat.
Wine appeared, poured by a server who vanished as quickly as he'd come. The first course: something French, delicate, probably expensive. Isabella's stomach was too tight to eat, but she forced herself to pick up her fork.
"You're not hungry," Adrian observed.
"I'm fine."
"You're terrified." He cut into his steak with surgical precision. "But you're pretending you're not."
"I'm not…" She set her fork down. "What do you want from this? Dinner, the dress, the…" She gestured vaguely. "The performance?"
"Conversation." Simple. Direct. "I'd like to know who you are."
"You already know who I am. You've been watching me for four months."
"I know what you do." Adrian sipped his wine. "I don't know what you think."
"Does it matter?"
"Yes." He met her eyes. "It matters a great deal."
Isabella forced herself to eat. To play the part, careful, poised, not quite broken. Between bites, she studied him. The sharp line of his jaw. The way he held his silverware. Everything controlled. Nothing wasted.
"Your family," she said finally. "They believe they're righteous too. That they're the victims in this war."
"My family is victims." His tone didn't change. Flat. Factual. "The Morettis slaughtered innocents at a peace summit. My brother. Others."
"And my family says the Volkovs struck first." She watched his face. "So who's right?"
"Does it matter?" He echoed her question. "We've been killing each other for fifteen years. Right and wrong stopped mattering somewhere around year three."
The honesty unsettled her more than lies would have.
"Then why continue?" she asked.
"Because stopping means admitting the deaths were meaningless." Adrian set down his knife. "And I'm not ready to do that."
"So you'll just…what? Keep killing? Forever?"
"Until one side wins." He studied her. "Or until someone breaks the cycle."
"Someone like me?" She couldn't keep the bitterness out. "The weapon you were supposed to eliminate?"
"Is that what you think you are? A weapon?"
"That's what I was made to be."
"By who?" His eyes sharpened. "The Morettis? Or yourself?"
The question landed wrong. Too close to something she didn't want to examine.
"I don't…" She picked up her wine glass. Her hands were steadier now. "I don't know what you want me to say."
"The truth." Adrian leaned back. "What's your earliest memory?"
The shift threw her. "What?"
"Your earliest memory. What is it?"
Isabella's mind went blank. She searched for an answer, something safe, something that wouldn't reveal too much. "I don't…that's not relevant."
"Humor me."
"Why?"
"Because I'm curious." He tilted his head. "And because you'll tell me eventually."
The certainty in his voice made her throat tight. She set down her wine and bought herself time by dabbing her napkin against her lips.
"Training," she said finally. "I remember training. Learning Italian. How to hold a knife properly."
"How old were you?"
"I don't know. Eight? Nine?"
"And before that?"
"Before that is…" She stopped. Looked at her hands. "There is no before that."
Adrian's expression shifted. Not quite sympathy. Something more complex. "Nothing?"
"The Morettis found me after the m******e. I was traumatized. I couldn't…" The words felt rehearsed because they were rehearsed. Viktor's explanation, repeated until it became truth. "I couldn't remember my life before."
"So they gave you one." Adrian's voice went quieter. "Isabella Moretti. Dead girl's name for a girl with no name."
"Don't…" She clenched her napkin. "Don't make it sound like that."
"Like what?"
"Like they used me."
"Didn't they?" He leaned forward. "They took a traumatized child and turned her into a weapon. What would you call that?"
"Love." The word came out fierce. "They loved me. Don Salvatore, Viktor, Nico…they gave me purpose. Family. A reason to…"
"To what?" Adrian interrupted. "To hate? To kill?"
"To get justice." Her voice rose. "For the innocents your family murdered."
"And when you complete your mission," he said calmly, "when you seduce me and destroy my family…what then? Do you get to stop being a weapon?"
The question hit like a fist. Isabella opened her mouth. Closed it.
She'd never thought past the mission. Never imagined a life where she wasn't preparing, training, becoming. What happened after Adrian Volkov was dead? After the Volkov empire fell?
Did she get to be something else?
Or was she just…
"You don't know," Adrian said softly. "Do you?"
"I…" Her throat closed. "That's not…"
"Do you dream in Italian or English?"
Another shift. Another question that shouldn't matter but somehow did.
"What?"
"When you dream," he repeated patiently, "what language do you think in?"
"I don't…" Isabella pressed her fingers to her temple. "I don't remember my dreams."
"Everyone remembers their dreams."
"Well, I don't."
Lie. She remembered them. Fractured images that never made sense, purple coats and snow, and someone calling a name she didn't recognize. But she wasn't about to tell him that.
Adrian watched her with that focused intensity. Like he could see the lie. See everything.
"Have you ever been to St. Petersburg?" he asked.
"No." Quick. Too quick.
His eyebrow lifted.
"I mean…" She scrambled. "Not that I remember. Why does it matter?"
"It doesn't." He picked up his wine. "I'm just curious about you."
"Why?"
"Because you're interesting." Simple. Matter-of-fact. "A girl with no past, trained to destroy me, who looks at me like…" He stopped.
"Like what?"
"Like you're trying to decide if I'm real."
Isabella's breath caught. She looked away, down at her plate. The food had gone cold.
"This is ridiculous," she muttered. "These questions, this dinner…you're playing some kind of game."
"Am I?"
"Yes." She met his eyes. "You're trying to…I don't know. Break me down. Make me doubt myself."
"Is it working?"
"No."
"Liar." But he said it gently. Almost fondly.
The server returned, cleared plates, and brought dessert. Something chocolate. Decadent. Isabella didn't touch it.
"Tell me about Nico," Adrian said.
Her spine straightened. "What about him?"
"He trained you. Personally." Not a question. Adrian already knew. "What's he to you?"
"Family."
"More than that."
"No." She shook her head. "Just…he's like a brother."
"Does he know that?" Adrian's tone stayed neutral. "Because the intelligence I have suggests…"
"Suggests what?" Her voice sharpened.
"That he looks at you the way men look at women they want to own."
"You're wrong."
"Am I?" He set down his fork. "Or are you just not ready to see it?"
Isabella's hands clenched in her lap. Nico was, he'd always been, he was family. Protective, yes. Intense, maybe. But never…
Except.
The way he watched her during training. The way his hand lingered when he corrected her stance. The way he'd looked at her the last time they'd met in Vienna…
No.
"You don't know him," she said.
"I know men." Adrian's eyes didn't leave hers. "And I know what wanting looks like."
"Like you'd know." The words came out sharp. Mean. "You're a machine. You don't want anything except control."
Something flickered in his expression. There and gone.
"You'd be surprised," he said quietly, "what I want."
The air between them felt charged. Heavy.
Isabella pushed back from the table. "I'm done. With dinner. With this…" She gestured. "Whatever this is."
"Sit down."
"No."
"Isabella…"
"I said no." She stood fully. The dress swished around her legs, a reminder that she was wearing his clothes, eating his food, trapped in his world. "You've made your point. I'm not in control. You are. Congratulations."
Adrian rose slowly. Predatory grace.
"You think this is about control?" He moved around the table. Closer. "You think I brought you here just to prove I could?"
"Didn't you?"
"No." He stopped in front of her. Close enough she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. "I brought you here because I wanted to know if you were real."
"Real?" She almost laughed. "I'm a lie wrapped in a dead girl's name. What about me is real?"
"This." His hand moved, slowly, telegraphing intent, and caught her wrist.
Isabella had cut her finger earlier, on the edge of a photograph. A small cut. Nothing.
Adrian's thumb brushed over it. Gentle. Almost reverent.
"Tell me, Isabella," he murmured.
Her breath stuttered. His touch was, it was…
"When did you start lying to yourself?"
- Writer
