Chapter 22
Isabella's POV
Connor had promised to bring me soup for dinner. That was six hours ago.
Now my body is betraying me in ways I never imagined possible.
The first spasm hits just after midnight, ripping through my nervous system like lightning. I'm thrown off the narrow stone bed, my knees cracking against the floor as every muscle contracts at once.
The drugs. Oh God, the withdrawal.
Three years of forced Colombian pure cocaine doesn't just disappear from your system quietly. It tears its way out, taking pieces of your sanity with it.
The room spins violently, fluorescent lights becoming streaks of painful white that stab into my brain like needles. Reality fractures at the edges. The stone walls seem to breathe, expanding and contracting with my ragged pulse.
My stomach cramps with vicious intensity. I barely make it to the corner before I'm retching, bringing up nothing but bile and desperation.
Sweat pours down my face despite the violent shivering. My teeth chatter so hard I bite my tongue, tasting blood. Every nerve ending screams for the chemical relief my body has been trained to expect.
The hallucinations grow stronger. I see Marco's face floating in the darkness, his dark eyes filled with disgust. "Murderer," he whispers. The words echo endlessly in the confined space.
I curl into a ball on the cold stone as the next spasm builds. This one lifts me completely off the floor, my back arching as electricity races along my spine.
The scream that tears from my throat doesn't sound human.
Heavy footsteps echo in the corridor. The door flies open, and Connor fills the doorway, his blue eyes immediately locking onto my crumpled form.
"Cristo santo," he breathes, crossing the space in two strides. "Isabella, what's happening?"
I try to speak, but another wave hits. My body convulses against the stone, completely beyond my control.
"The drugs," I manage through chattering teeth. "Withdrawal. It's been days."
Connor drops to his knees beside me. "How long since your last dose?"
"Too long." Another spasm cuts off my words. "Connor, please—"
"We need to get you medical attention."
"No doctors." The words tear from my throat. "Marco will—"
"Marco will what? Let you die down here?"
I look up at him through tears I didn't realize I was crying. His blue eyes are filled with genuine concern—not possession, not calculation, just human compassion.
"Connor," I whisper, my voice breaking. "I need something. Anything. I can pay you—"
"Stop." His voice is firm but gentle. "This isn't about money."
"Then what?" Desperation makes me grab at his shirt. "I'll do anything. Just make it stop."
"I can't watch you destroy yourself," he says simply.
"I'm already destroyed!" The words explode from me. "Look what they made me into!"
"You're surviving," Connor says with quiet conviction. "There's a difference."
Another spasm drives me to my knees. Without hesitation, Connor pulls me against his chest, one arm around my shoulders while his free hand strokes my hair.
His chest is solid beneath my cheek, warm and steady. I can feel his heartbeat, and for a moment the chemical fire dims to a manageable burn.
"I've got you," he murmurs against my hair. "I'm not letting go."
The kindness in his voice breaks something inside me. Without thinking, I turn my face up toward his.
Our lips meet somewhere between comfort and desperation.
Connor's mouth is warm, tasting of coffee and something indefinably him. For a moment, I remember what it feels like to be touched without ownership—just pure human connection.
"Isabella," he breathes against my lips, my name both question and warning.
Heavy footsteps echo in the corridor outside.
We freeze, still wrapped in each other's arms, as the sound grows closer. Deliberate. Familiar. Dangerous.
The door explodes inward with such force that the heavy wood slams against the stone wall.
Marco Salvatore stands in the doorway like wrath incarnate, his perfectly tailored Armani suit somehow making him more menacing. The overhead light casts sharp shadows across his angular face, highlighting the deadly fury burning in his dark eyes.
For a heartbeat, nobody moves. The air itself seems to thicken, charged with violence.
Marco's gaze takes in our positioning—me in Connor's protective embrace, our faces inches apart—and something fundamental shifts in his expression. The careful mask of control cracks like breaking glass.
His hands clench into fists, the Salvatore family ring catching the harsh light. A muscle jumps in his jaw as he processes what he's seeing.
Betrayal. From the one man he trusted above all others.
"Get your fucking hands off her."
The words come out low and deadly, each syllable dripping with barely controlled violence. There's something primordial in his voice now—not the civilized don, but something far more dangerous.
Connor doesn't move immediately, his arms still protective around me. "Marco, she's sick. She needs—"
"I said get your hands off her!"
Marco's voice cracks like a whip, filled with authority that's been honed over generations. The sound reverberates off the stone walls, making me flinch against Connor's chest.
The rage radiating from Marco is almost visible now, distorting the air like heat waves. His breathing has changed—the way a predator breathes before it strikes.
Connor reluctantly releases me but doesn't back away. "She's going through withdrawal. Someone needs to help her."
"Someone?" Marco's laugh is sharp as breaking glass. "And you decided that someone should be you?"
He takes a step into the room, and suddenly the space feels infinitely smaller. Marco's presence fills every available inch, sucking the oxygen from the air.
His dark eyes never leave Connor's face, studying him with the intensity of a man cataloging every detail before he destroys it.
"How long, Connor?" The question comes out soft, conversational, which somehow makes it infinitely more terrifying. "How long have you been playing hero with my property?"
The possessive fury in the word 'property' makes my skin crawl, but it's the deadly calm in Marco's voice that truly terrifies me.
"It's not what you think," Connor replies, but there's steel entering his voice. "She needed help, and you—"
"And I what?" Marco's voice drops to that whisper that's somehow more terrifying than any scream. "I wasn't taking proper care of what belongs to me?"
Marco's eyes have gone completely black now—the cold, calculating fury of a man whose absolute authority has been challenged.
"She's not property," Connor says, his Irish accent thickening. "She's a human being who's suffered enough."
"Is she?" Marco's smile could cut glass. "Or is she a lying, murdering bitch who killed my sister and is now trying to seduce my most trusted soldier?"
Connor's jaw tightens. "You don't believe that."
"Don't I?" Marco's voice drops to that deadly whisper. "Then tell me, Connor—what exactly happened here tonight?"
Before Connor can answer, Marco signals to the hallway. Two soldatos appear.
Marco's expression darkens like a storm cloud, his jaw clenched with barely controlled rage.
"String him up!" he snarls, his voice carrying deadly authority of absolute obedience.