Chapter 25 The cage pt1
Isabella hit the ground on her knees so hard she barely felt it.
All she saw was Alessandro.
His body lay twisted wrong on the stone, one arm sprawled out like he’d reached for her and missed. For half a second her mind refused to accept it. Refused to connect the sound — the crack of impact — with the stillness in front of her.
“No,” she breathed.
Her hands found his shoulders, shook him once, then harder.
“Alessandro—Alessandro, look at me.”
His head lolled slightly.
A dark smear marked his hairline. Blood — not a flood, but enough to turn her stomach to ice.
Isabella’s fingers flew to his throat.
She didn’t know what she was doing. She’d seen it in movies. She’d heard nurses talk about it when she lived abroad. She pressed two fingers to his skin and waited for something — anything.
Nothing.
Or maybe her hands were shaking too much to feel it.
Her chest tightened until it hurt.
Her breath came in ragged pulls, like her lungs had forgotten how to work.
“Please,” she whispered, leaning down until her forehead touched his. “Please don’t—please don’t do this. Not like this.”
She tried again. Pulse. Neck. Wrist. Anything.
Her mind kept replaying the same image: Alessandro moving in front of her, fast and certain, like there was no question where he stood. Then the strike. Then his eyes — just a flicker — and the way the world had swallowed him.
Isabella’s throat burned.
This couldn’t be real.
It wasn’t supposed to end on a terrace with olive trees and sunlight. It wasn’t supposed to end in silence.
She had thought love could be strong enough to drag them out of their families’ shadows.
She had been wrong.
Hands grabbed her.
Not gently.
Not carefully.
Isabella screamed and fought like something feral, twisting her body, clawing at sleeves, trying to break free. She reached for Alessandro again and again like her hands could stitch him back together.
“No!” she sobbed. “Let me go—let me—Alessandro!”
Someone pulled her up by the arms. Another locked an iron grip around her waist. Her feet dragged uselessly over the ground.
She kicked.
She thrashed.
Her nails caught skin and fabric.
A man hissed in pain.
Marco’s voice cut through it all like a blade.
“Enough.”
Isabella turned her head so sharply it hurt.
Marco stood a few steps away, face carved from stone, eyes too bright, too hard. He didn’t look at Alessandro on the floor. Not once.
He looked at her.
“Marco,” Isabella choked out. “He’s not moving. He’s not—he’s—”
She couldn’t say the word.
If she said it, it would become true.
Marco’s jaw flexed. “Take her.”
Isabella’s world tilted.
“NO!” she screamed, voice shredding. “Marco, you can’t—he protected me. He—he didn’t even know who I was. He didn’t—”
“Take her,” Marco repeated, colder.
Isabella fought harder. Panic turned to fury, fury to desperation, desperation to grief so sharp it felt like her ribs might crack.
“YOU DID THIS!” she screamed at him, tears blinding her. “YOU DID THIS IN THE NAME OF HATRED!”
Marco’s face didn’t move.
Only his eyes narrowed slightly, like her words were an inconvenience he refused to absorb.
They dragged her toward the cars.
Isabella twisted, trying to look back, trying to see Alessandro’s chest rise, trying to see any sign he was alive.
His body remained still.
The ground beneath him looked too clean.
The air felt too bright.
Her mind begged for denial, for anything that made sense.
But all she saw was him on the floor.
And the distance growing.
“Alessandro!” she screamed again, voice cracking. “Please—please—”
A hand clamped over her mouth.
Her scream turned into a muffled sob.
They shoved her into the back seat.
The door slammed.
The lock clicked.
Isabella pressed her face to the glass, hands shaking so badly her fingers left streaks.
The car moved.
And Alessandro was gone.
The drive felt endless.
No one spoke to her.
No one explained.
No one cared that she was shaking so violently her teeth clicked together.
Isabella’s mind ran in circles, looping the same horror until it became a kind of torture.
He’s dead.
He can’t be dead.
He’s dead.
He protected you.
He died because of you.
Her stomach rolled.
She swallowed bile and sobbed silently, forehead against the window as olive trees blurred past like they were running too.
Marco sat in the front seat, rigid, staring ahead.
Once, Isabella leaned forward, voice hoarse.
“Marco,” she whispered. “Please.”
He didn’t turn his head.
“Marco,” she tried again, louder. “Please—he—he didn’t deserve—”
Marco’s hand lifted slightly.
The driver turned up the radio.
Not music.
Static.
A harsh, broken noise that filled the car and swallowed her words.
Isabella sank back, breath shuddering.
Static.
Like the world had become nothing but interference. Like she’d been erased from her own life.
Her hands went to her stomach without thinking.
Empty.
Cold.
She didn’t know what she was supposed to do now.
She didn’t know if she would ever see sunlight again without tasting blood.
Every mile took her further away from him — from his house, his arms, his warmth, the life she had almost believed was real.
A life that had lasted a heartbeat.
Because hatred had found her faster than happiness.
When they arrived, the gates opened before the car even slowed.
Home.
The Romano estate rose behind iron and stone like a memory she had tried to outrun. Walls too high. Windows too narrow. A mansion built not for comfort but for control.
Isabella’s throat tightened.
The car stopped.
The door opened.
Hands pulled her out.
Her legs buckled the moment her feet hit the gravel.
Isabella stumbled, catching herself on the side of the car, suddenly dizzy.
“Slow,” she begged, voice raw. “Please—just—”
They didn’t.
They guided her toward the entrance like she was property being returned.
Inside, the air smelled familiar — polished wood, expensive perfume, quiet fear.
Isabella barely made it past the foyer before a scream shattered the house.
Her mother came running.
No — not running.
Stumbling.
Like her body had forgotten grace.
Her hair was loose, eyes swollen, face wet with tears. When she saw Isabella, she made a sound that wasn’t words — a broken cry ripped from the deepest part of her.
“Oh God,” her mother sobbed, grabbing Isabella’s face with both hands. “Oh my God—Isabella—my baby—my baby—”
Isabella collapsed into her, shaking.
“Mom,” she choked. “Mom—”
Her mother’s hands moved frantically over her arms, her shoulders, her hair, searching for injuries, searching for blood.
“What did they do to you?” she cried. “Are you hurt? Tell me where you’re hurt—”
Isabella’s breath hitched.
The image of Alessandro on the floor punched her again so hard she almost fell.