Chapter: Isabelle
Chapter: Isabelle
The air in Alessandro’s office is always heavy, but tonight it’s sodden, pressed to my lungs like wet velvet. Thunder shakes the glass in the bay windows, rousing the city’s lights into a nervous twinkle beyond the blackout drapes. Every time it rumbles, the edge of the old banker’s lamp quivers on the too-shiny oak desk, its sickly green glow fixing me in place like a bug under a bell jar.
I stand motionless beside the fireplace, shoulders squared, hands folded so neatly over my skirt that the knuckles gleam. The first lesson is always to keep your voice low and your posture perfect, no matter what he’s about to do to you.
Alessandro circles the far side of the desk, his movements slow but not calm, like a caged panther trained to prowl in tailored wool. He stares at the ledgers for a long moment—never opening one, just tracing the gold-embossed spines with his thumb—before he closes his fist and thumps it down hard on the crystal cigar tray. The crystal jumps, rattling two Cohibas against the cut-glass edge.
“Why did she run back to them?” His voice is smooth, not raised, but the words hit harder than the thunder. “Cara. She was a wonderful ride. Why did she return to the Irish, when she was so close to being family?” The word “family” is a venom-tipped needle, and the more you hear it, the more it stings.But I'm not sure whats worse hearing him use the word in regards to Cara being in a family with him, or the fact I know exactly what he means about her being a ride.
I don’t answer. In this house, you can answer and get beaten, or stay silent and get beaten harder. I’ve learned it really doesn't matter either way. I actually try to bring the darkness forward.
He doesn’t move right away, and that’s almost worse. The silence is a performance: Alessandro setting the scene for whatever comes next. I feel the heat of the banker’s lamp burning the top of my scalp. It’s not hot enough to blister, but if I stood here for hours I’m sure he’d find out.
“You haven’t asked about your friend.” He says it without looking up. “Not a single word.”
I swallow and fix my gaze on the diptych painting over the mantel. It’s some oil-smudged Madonna, her baby a blot of white and pink, faces scrubbed into anonymity by time or maybe rage. You learn to love art by omission, by counting every absence.
“Cara is alive?” I ask, so soft the words barely make it across the carpet.
He lifts his head, mouth stretched wide in a parody of delight. “Of course she is. For now.” He chooses a cigar, rolling it under his nose. “But she has your saw she went back in a state. Broken nose, cracked ribs, two missing teeth. I was just expectng to return the favor of what he, or I thought he would do to you. The Irish are sentimental that way.”
He sets the cigar down and presses both hands flat on the desk, leaning forward so the lamplight sinks into the hollows of his cheeks. “Why don't you look like she does, Isabelle?”
My name in his mouth is a jagged thing. I’m careful to let my face go slack, to let my eyes droop just so he thinks I'm being obedeiant. The truth is, I’m raw with terror, but it’s an old terror, one I wear like a callus.
“I don't know,”I keep the answer short like I always have only this is the frist time I have ever lied to him.
He lets that linger, lips pressed tight. “You know, that’s the one thing I always admired about you. Even as a girl, you kept your mouth shut. Like a proper Italian wife.” He straightens, smoothing the sleeves of his suit. “But there’s a difference between silence and stupidity.”
He rounds the desk and comes toward me, each step measured to the width of the Persian rug. My hands twitch at my sides, and I force them to stillness. He stops just close enough for me to smell the mineral tang of rain on his coat, the faint undertow of blood. Maybe it’s just my mind inventing it. Sometimes I think I can taste violence before it arrives.
“Did you offer yourself in trade? Or did Liam send you back?” His breath is sweet with whiskey and charred wood.
"I ecaped."
“Why not let her die? You owed her nothing.”
This is the heart of the interrogation, and it’s a trick. The right answer is a lie, but you must choose the right flavor of lie, the one that flatters his ego and confirms his view of the world.
“Because you would have killed her,” I say, eyes on the rug. “You would have killed her slowly, and sent me her bones.”
He smiles then, a true smile, white and predatory. “So you do know me, after all. Five years and you’re finally learning.”
He reaches for my jaw, tipping my face up between thumb and forefinger. His grip is gentle but absolute. I’m trained to keep my eyes steady, so I do, staring into his dark ones, each fleck of gold burning like a slow fuse.
“You are not as irreplaceable as you think, my sweet.” The pet name, always delivered in a tone that means the opposite. “If you ever—ever—conspire with the Irish against me, and run away again. I will make you wish for death every single day. And then I will let you die old, unloved, and alone. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I say, and mean it. But I also remember Liam’s hands on my spine, his voice soft as wool, his promise to take of me. That’s what makes Alessandro’s threat so hollow. Even if I hope Liam will see Cara and realise he can't win.
He releases me, smoothing the spot where his fingers pressed. He circles behind, his movements crisp now, not theatrical. He plucks the cigar from the tray, lights it with a gold match, and paces behind me, close enough I feel the heat of each exhale on my bare neck.
“You were born into filth and betrayal, Isabelle. You know what it is to be thrown away. And yet you persist in this… fantasy.” He inhales, the tip of the cigar pulsing orange. “What does he offer you, this Irishman? Freedom? Love? You know those things don’t exist for people like you.”
His words are meant to bruise, but they’re just echoes. I’ve said them to myself a hundred times.
“He was kind,” I say, because I know it will amuse him.